At the Door of Almost Gone

This poem holds the quiet violence of unshared emotion and the desperate desire for signs, for chance, for something — anything — to bridge the space between two people who once knew each other.

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I no longer wear armour

for glory.

It hangs heavy now,

ornate and useless,

the etchings dulled

like promises said too often

with eyes elsewhere.

I sit at the threshold

of this brittle house,

watching signs accumulate like ash—

doors left ajar

silences cultivated

with the care of bitter gardeners.

The neighbours pretend not to see.

They draw their curtains in whispers,

stirring teacups

as though the clink

might summon ghosts.

But the dog watches me.

Unblinking.

Unjudging.

He wears no mask.

Only the chain

that speaks of ownership

and silent loyalty.

We share something,

he and I.

The wordless understanding

of those who wait

for something that will not mend.

I wonder if he feels it too—

the chance that slipped sideways

between morning coffee

and bedroom walls

cold as foreign soil.

Once, I fought kingdoms.

Now, I fight absence.

Not loud.

Not noble.

Just the slow hollowing,

where even anger feels extravagant.

I remember the days

when we spoke in fierce vowels,

our arguments sparking

like blades on stone.

At least then

I could read the map

of her face—

twists of sorrow,

tendrils of wanting,

each emotion worn openly

like a soldier’s badge.

Now,

her eyes are a winter without signs.

A hush so complete

I cannot breach it.

Even my victories taste of rust.

The dog shifts closer.

His chain rattles —

a sound honest as grief.

He knows.

Knows the weight of devotion

when it is no longer asked for.

Knows how to sit still

when the person you guard

looks past you.

I scratch his ear.

A small mercy.

Between us,

the quiet is not cruel.

It is simply there—

the way neighbours are,

close yet untouchable.

Night creeps in like smoke.

I do not rise.

The house behind me

is filled with the hum of undone love.

But the dog stays.

And tonight,

that is enough

to keep the blade sheathed.