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Poem

I met her once in a house with no laughter,
where the wallpaper peeled like old regrets,
where the air tasted of dust and waiting.
She sat on the staircase, small knees to her chest,
counting the footsteps that never came back.

She spoke in the language of careful silences,
in the hush of a door never opening,
in the crack of a voice that forgot how to ask.
Her hands held nothing but air and absence,
and yet, they trembled as if they knew loss too well.

She was the kind of child no one looks for,
the one who learned to fold herself quiet,
who made herself smaller than the spaces between words,
who mastered the art of not being a burden.

And I, I did not save her.
No one did.

Instead, she wove herself into my bones,
threaded her sorrow into my skin.
Now, she walks when I walk,
sits beside me in empty rooms,
tucks herself into the corners of my reflection.

Some nights, I feel her fingers in my own,
pulling me back to a childhood I do not visit.
She still stands in doorways, waiting.
She still listens for voices that will never call her name.

And I, older, taller, louder,
am no better than the ghosts who left her there.
I tell her she matters,
but I do not let her speak.
I tell her she is safe,
but I never stay long enough to prove it.

She watches me with something like knowing,
something like pity,
something like an apology.

As if to say;

You are the one who left me now.

And I do not answer.

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