The Place Where Nobody Stays
I am the light left burning on the porch,
the spare room at the bottom of the hall,
the steady hand that holds a fading torch
when nobody else answers to your call.
You come to me when brighter offers fade,
when crowded rooms grow cold and turn away,
to sit within the quiet I have made
and wait until the breaking of the day.
I listen to the grief you carry in,
I stitch the tears that others left behind,
and let you start your healing from within,
providing every peace you couldn't find.
I clear my calendar to make you room,
I set my own heavy troubles on the shelf,
to pull you out of unexpected gloom,
forgetting how to listen to myself.
I hold your secrets like a fragile glass,
I keep your shadows safe inside my chest,
and sit beside you as the dark hours pass,
content to give you shelter, time, and rest.
And when the sun begins to warm the floor,
and color rushes back into your face,
you gather up your coat and reach the door,
and leave me standing in an empty space.
You step back out into the lively crowd,
to those who get your laughter and your best,
while I am left with silence, cold and loud,
a simple pit stop where you came to rest.
You text me only when the night goes wrong,
or when the people that you prefer are gone,
and expect that I will simply play along,
a background figure you can lean upon.
It is a bitter math I have to learn:
to be the one who saves, but isn't sought,
the one you use until the tables turn,
an afterthought that never gave a thought.
For being useful isn't being dear,
and being available is not a bond.
I hold the mirror up to dry your tear,
but no one looks at what is left beyond.
I drown in quiet while I keep you dry,
I hold the heavy ceiling as it bends,
and wonder, as the busy world goes by,
who saves the person saving all their friends.
And as the door clicks shut, the truth grows clear:
I built a refuge out of my own pain,
yet no one ever thinks to ask me here
if I am drowning in my own dark rain.
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