The Leaving
Some departures aren’t loud.
They don’t slam doors
or leave tire tracks.
They happen in the quiet—
in a breath not taken,
in the morning someone doesn’t call.
These are the poems
that live in the stillness after.
What was said too late,
what was packed in silence,
what was left behind
to rot or remember.
The Room You Left Me In
I woke to quiet.
but the bed still held you shape.
Absence doesn’t echo—
it soaks into the wallpaper
and waits for you to breathe.
companion to “Haunted House”
I was never hiding.
I was waiting.
For the door to creak
the right way.
For the footsteps
that knew my name
without flinching.
You left the light on
once.
That was enough.
Dust kept me company.
Spiders spun lullabies.
Even the shadows
learned not to scare me.
I listened to the walls grow old.
I counted winters
by the way the wind changed
its tone.
I forgave you
before you even turned the key.
You were just trying
not to disappear.
I get it.
So take off your shoes.
I swept the floor.
And when you’re ready—
we can go play.
Peripheral
I was never the main event—just the blur at the edge of the frame.
This is a poem about the ones you almost saw.
She’s cute—
exotic one moment,
girlish the next.
Her eyes do the talking—
shy,
with sparks tucked deep.
A jawline curving
into a lean neck
that speaks of quiet strength.
Passing,
she glances just enough—
smiles,
tucks hair behind one ear.
Her scent lingers,
braided with whatever makes her
hard to ignore.
Then the door shuts.
I stay,
feet leaning forward,
just to
talk
to you.
The Night I Left
I left without a speech. Just the sound of a door and shoes on gravel.
This poem is about departure when staying has already done the damage.
Just a flicker of myself
caught in the subway glass—
blurred by speed,
almost real.
Wondering—are we
to be observed with cold eyes
of forgotten lovers?
People we used to discover,
who followed for a
short time into the darkness, still left
straddling a see-saw of desire.
Just another story in a life,
a million stories tall—
and only get'n higher.
Not one true love.
Not one unconditional moment of compassion.
Not one game left un-played.
All of us, slaves chained to
oars rowing the same direction.
The rhythm of whips and dreams
screams lessons of half-eaten apples,
brief, blinding commitments—
burning hotter than thirty suns,
and gone just as fast.
And in the death throes of this
rejected union—this collapsed mass of used-up feelings—
what is left that is appealing?
Finding some inner strength.
Some soulful healing.
Wishing for youthful rapture,
when the only pain came
from scraped knees and iodine stains.
Even then, all was forgotten with mother's breath,
hushed words, and a soft finger to wipe the tears away.
People always seek out what pains them.
Bliss comes only in flashes—
moments, flickering
in the dark glass
of a city that never looks back
Haunted House
They ask why I never go back.
I say the walls still whisper.
But it’s not ghost I fear–
It’s the way my voice disappears
Every time I try to speak there.
I left the boy of my youth
kneeling in a closet—
knees to cold floorboards,
breath shallow as dust.
The world outside
was too ultraviolet,
too loud with its living.
I sealed the windows
with hours and silence,
let survival
nail the door shut.
The house fell still,
as years creaked overhead.
But you—
you were never alone.
I heard your hush
in every room I entered,
felt your shadow
curl beneath my spine.
Now I’ve come home.
The lock gave easy.
Your eyes are still soft,
though rimmed in cobwebs.
Let me sweep.
Let me sit.
Let me remember
how to live
in a house with open windows.