The Way Home

 I wanted to.

I really did.

Turn the wheel,

take the familiar turn,

catch a glimpse,

even from the dark.

Not to intrude.

Just to know.

Like scratching at an itch

buried beneath the skin—

the kind that doesn't let you rest.

But I didn’t.

I swerved home.

Not because I don’t care,

but because I do—

and that makes it dangerous.

Because if I search,

then I’m just like the rest.

Then I become the noise

you've spent your life

trying to quiet.

And you'd lock me out—

again.

Maybe forever.

Would that be so terrible?

Maybe not.

Maybe it's just what’s left

when kindness outruns clarity.

So I folded the wanting

back into myself,

tucked it beneath ribs

and soft prayers.

Put who I am

back in the places

I’ve neglected—

places where the windows

have been gaping

and letting in wind

I forgot how to brace for.

I don’t chase doors

that won’t open.

Not anymore.

I just needed to say something.

Not to break your peace,

but to acknowledge mine.

Because the way you pushed me out

spoke loud enough—

it told me:

don’t make the first step.

So I won’t.

The ball is in your court now,

if courts still exist

between us.

I’d love to see

what finds its way

into my time—

but is there time

for me at all?

I suppose

I’ll never know.

Not from here.

Not from this side

of the locked door.