The House I Never Enter

There is a room in you with no name on the door— I press my ear to it and pretend the hush inside is mine. I have traced the woodgrain like scripture, named each knot with the things you don’t say. You let me stay on the porch of your soul— barefoot, breath held, pretending the threshold was a gift. You are a lighthouse turned inward, a cathedral of withheld storms. Everyone kneels but no one listens to the bells. You guide others from wreckage, yet never send a flare for your own rescue. I arrive with my storms in cupped hands— unspoken griefs, sun-warm laughter, the ache of wanting to be enough. You warm them without asking what burned. But when you bleed— you bleed elsewhere. Your truths spill like moonlight into other hands. Hands softer, perhaps. Or simply earlier. More fluent in the geography of you. There is someone who speaks your unsaid like a native tongue. And I— I am the hush that follows. The aftertaste. The frame, or maybe just the fog on it. I envy not the person— but the gravity. The way your truths fall towards- without effort, without apology. Still, I anchor here. Fold myself smaller, fit into the corners you let me exist in. Not out of absence— but devotion. Because loving you has never been about being seen.