She’s leaning in the doorway smoking a cigarette.
I’ve been keeping your seat warm.”
You’re not banned forever.
She has to keep you running a half-step behind,
waiting for the day you walk up without needing to knock.
she lets you keep the memory,
but only if it hurts.
-
She watches you the way a cat watches a bird
it has already decided not to kill tonight.
There’s a game here, exquisite and pointless:
she keeps the door cracked exactly wide enough
for hope to squeeze through and die of exposure.
-
You could step forward.
You could take the single pace
that would bring your shoes onto her rug,
your breath into her smoke,
your heart back into the grinder
she operates with such bored precision.
-
But she has trained you better than that.
You stay half a step behind
a loyal satellite in decaying orbit,
waiting for the day gravity finally wins
and you fall across the sill without asking.