Shoes By The Door
Your shoes by the door,
worn soles tracing paths
you used to walk -
each scuff a story,
each crease a memory,
quiet but heavy.
They sit there,
still laced with quiet defiance,
a reminder of mornings you rushed,
of late nights spent at your desk -
always just a little more to do.
The scent of your aftershave
lingers in the hallway,
waiting for you to step back in,
but all that’s left are your shoes,
empty now,
facing the door that never opens.
I remember your stories -
the ones that made us laugh,
the silences that made me listen harder.
They echo now,
soft whispers in the rooms
where you once stood.
Your shoes by the door,
waiting in quiet solitude,
never quite lost to me.
I see you in the way they sit,
as if you’re just about to walk in,
like you never left.
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