Behind Doors We Never Opened

The teacup holds no heat now, just the stain of days that meant more than they said,

the delicate lip of porcelain still shaped to her mouth as if it remembers better than I do,

and the lantern, rusted but upright, hasn’t glowed since the night she whispered,

"I’ll wait by the fire if you ever come back through the door."

There’s a compass that spins when the wind shifts wrong,

like it’s trying to follow her footsteps or the scent of lavender she wore

even when she knew no one would visit, and the key,

the key I keep tucked in my coat though the door it belonged to

was bricked up decades ago, after the war, after the silence grew teeth.

Love lived here, yes, but only behind doors no one dared open,

where glances said more than letters ever could,

and I still sit at this table, old bones creaking in a chair she once polished,

watching ghosts I know by name sip invisible tea,

flicker in the glass of the lamp,

reach for the compass,

try the key,

and never once ask why I stayed behind.