Return To Sender.

Not every gift was given.
Some were placed.

Some came with a scent unnamed at first —
Sweet, soft, familiar…

yet the air grew colder the longer they stayed.

But now I remember:
Not all offerings are innocent.
Not every hand that smiles is clean.

The thread has been cut.
The door — resealed.
And the warmth you pretended to offer
is already unraveling,
thread by thread,
toward your own doorstep.

I won’t speak names.
No need.
The return knows where to go.

Even silence hums with direction.

So if your left palm begins to itch,
if the dreams come too loud,
if the rooms feel less empty than before —
don’t wonder why.

Some things
just find their way back home.