Open the door.

I’ll be here when you do.

I’ll be here to let you back in.

You won’t get lost.

I won’t let you.

The monster isn’t real—

but the pain is.

The wounds you carry
beneath
 your perfect armor

are real.

Can you hold the mirror

without shattering it?

Can you see into your own eyes

the way I do?
Can you believe

the way I still do?

I can’t carry you.

But I can stay.

I can wait—

days, months, years, or lifetimes—

right here, at the threshold.

And when you find your way back,
I’ll be here,

watching as the handle turns
to see your face again.
He’ll be waiting too,
to hold his tiny hand.

And when you’re here—

on this side

where I’ve cradled him in my arms,
And closed my eyes

again and again

to hope,
to hope,

to hope—

I will hold you,
as if you’ve been gone forever.
I will not ask questions—
but I will read into your eyes,
as they’ve always spoken unsaid words.

And I will carry all they show me,
like remembered lullabies.

And mine will tell you back,
in the gentlest ways they can,
that you were always loved.