Adwaita Patane Poet Free verse

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.

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