Curtains That Refuse to Close

Our living room keeps theater hours long past evening’s news;

The curtains won’t agree to close—they yawn and then refuse.

They billow like reluctant lungs that don’t believe in ends,

and let the streetlight pour its gold on everything it mends.

~•~•~

I tug the cord of yesterday; it snags on one more scene—

Your laugh—a traveling understudy—ghosts the in-between.

The velvet hems remember storms; they hold a salt-stained pose.

Yet every pull I give them births a softer “I suppose.”

~•~•~

Outside, a cab recites a line; the sidewalk shuffles, too.

A moth repeats a shaky bow, rehearsing not to rue.

Our room becomes a proscenium for quiet, stubborn grace,

where ordinary props—two mugs—find courage on the lace.

~•~•~

You always loved an open frame, the window as a stage,

where breezes turned the script’s stiff page with kindness, not with rage.

I learned to trust the almost-dark, that honey after gray—

the mercy of a half-drawn seam that lets the wounded stay.

~•~•~

We do not need a blackout cue to know which act we’re in.

The light can dim by increments and still invite us in.

So let the curtains argue, love; they’re wiser than they seem—

They know that endings come in breaths, not one decisive beam.

~•~•~

Tonight I’ll leave them partway drawn, a door for passing light,

a treaty with the world beyond that still believes in night.

And if tomorrow asks for dawn before I’m set to rise,

These curtains, open just enough, will teach my eyes their size.

~•~•~

Not all goodbyes require a slam, a final thundered prose—

Some close like gentle fabric does, and some refuse to close.

We’ll live inside that tender gap, where hush and daylight meet,

and practice pulling softly shut what doesn’t need complete.