Never to hold

Right beside you.

Years.

I believed you wanted to know me.

There was time enough

to learn the shape of my hands,

what makes me go quiet.

Strangers know me better.

I’ve shared a life with you and still haven’t any answers of who the hell you are.

You disappear down the hallway,

behind the bedroom door. No resolution no healing to be found.

I see your face come alive

in the company of others.

The laughter I once knew and

wait everyday to hear.

That familiar silence is all I hear.

My text unread calls not heard. I know better from you. Your face lights up the smile as you read, when it’s not from me.

Do u even miss you anymore.

we’re you really ever here.

You’re close enough to touch,

but your shoulder stays turned.

I reach across the bed

and find the cold sheet

between us,

the hollow your body left

filling with night.

Does it even matter to you

that I’m here?

You say it’s not true.

But you don’t see you

like I do.

Hurt becomes disappointment,

disappointment anger.

You don’t get to take my pain

and turn it into an insult game.

That’s the easy way out—

another chapter

I’ve read too many times.

Your words fill the kitchen

until there’s no room

for mine.

What I came to say

stays caught in my throat.

“I’ll do you a favor.”

I watch your eyes

slide past my face.

My words fall between us

and lie there untouched,

beside the mail,

the keys,

the dish neither of us has washed.

I ask you to understand

the ache under my ribs,

to help me lift

what you’ve broken.

You leave it in my hands.

I carry it upstairs,

wake with it

pressed against my chest.

How many ways

can I point to the bruise

before you care enough

to stop pressing there?

Then comes a softer evening.

Your hand finds mine

under the blanket.

Your thumb moves once

across my knuckles.

For a moment,

I stop feeling alone.

I carry that moment

through the days that follow,

making room

for the man

I thought was coming back.

I leave the porch light on,

keep your favorite mug

at the front of the shelf,

listen for your key

in the lock.

I warm your dinner twice

and cover the plate

with the same blue bowl.

For one evening,

I mistake your warmth

for a way out of the dark.

Then morning comes.

Your hand is gone.

The coffee cools between us.

The toast goes hard

on the plate.

I’m left with

what the light revealed.

You know I’ll hear you out.

You bring me what weighs on you.

I turn off the television,

set down my book,

make room for it.

When I bring you mine,

you keep scrolling.

The blue light moves

over your thumb,

over the rim of your glass.

There’s nowhere

to set it down.

Years.

I thought you were learning me

as I was learning you.

I thought there would come a day

I wouldn’t have to explain

why I needed tenderness—

why I flinch when you sigh,

why I wait by the door

for one question about my day.

But every explanation

became another thing

you could forget.

Every hurt I named

became a place

you learned not to look.

I taught you the map

of my silence,

the warning in my hand