the dogs come back to the porch they pretended to forget.
(scent instead of fruit. memory instead of love.)
i do not reach.
i remain.
like a field in autumn
where nothing grows
but everything waits.
they come not for the fruit,
but for the scent
of something
that once bloomed.
i am not flame.
i am the cigarette
left burning
in a tired hand.
i do not chase.
but they return
like dogs to the porch
they pretended
to forget.
power is when your silence
makes them speak your name
without knowing why.
⋯
i do not ask.
but i am gathered.
i do not cry out,
but you hear it anyway,
in the way i stay.
shoulders low,
like someone
who belongs to no one
but still hopes.
this body is
a barn
that no longer locks.
you step inside,
and dust forgets
its shame.
don’t call it surrender.
call it evening.
call it a name
too drunk
to spell.
between leash and longing,
there’s a path
back to me.