in a wide and quiet house
where the walls stood tall
but never leaned in to listen.
There were dreams of what was promised; of swimming in pools of tangible togetherness only to find that secluded dry land was more suitable.
The acres like secret friends, there were fields that knew his footsteps
better than she did.
He kept the keys to every door,
even the invisible ones—
the ones made of numbers and permissions,
the ones that made her feel small.
She would stand at the edge window some evenings,
watching the sun set on land
that took him further from her
with every golden mile.
And in that fading light,
she wondered how a life could feel so full
of things that were not hers,
Yet so empty of being chosen.
Once upon a time,
she still believed
that somewhere inside her quiet longing, there was a story of love, but she watched as selfish ambition ripped its plot from the binder, page by page.
