After a disappointing day, this poem became a space to reflect on high expectations, emotional fatigue, and the bittersweet beauty of realizing that the journey inward may be the only one we ever finish.
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I arrived soaked through,
boots gummed with the ghost-slick of moss and rain.
The path wound like regret—cracked, jagged,
shining with the residue of a storm’s goodbye.
The house waited,
lanterns lit like false promises,
their glow a siren song for bone-weary travelers
and men who mistake warmth for love.
I used to believe relationships were gardens—
neat rows of intention,
fertilized with attention,
growing skyward.
Now I see them as lightning rods.
Flashes.
Strikes.
A brief illumination that burns more than it reveals.
Inside, shadows moved.
Not people.
Not anymore.
Just the shapes of what might have been—
a laugh trapped in wallpaper,
a sigh curled under the rug.
I’ve walked through many such thresholds.
Some gave me coffee and riddles.
Others served silence on chipped plates.
But here—
this place is high frequency.
A hum under the skin.
Anticipation slithering like heat in the marrow.
I smell it:
wood smoke,
tangerine peels drying on the stove,
and something older—like dust that remembers.
Love once lived here.
It etched its name into the bannister.
It cracked the kitchen tiles
with Sunday arguments and redemption casseroles.
It danced, barefoot and brash,
in the sticky yellow of 2 p.m. sunshine.
And it left.
Like all good storms.
Taking shutters,
taking light bulbs,
leaving echoes in teacups
and splinters in the floor.
I stood outside too long.
I always do.
Waiting for the house to blink first.
But I am tired of being an apparition
in other people’s weather.
Tired of being a souvenir
from someone else’s story.
Maybe the next house will open its door.
Or maybe I’ll find a room of my own—
no photographs,
no creaking stairwells,
just the electric silence
of self-discovery.
Because life is not
a string of places to belong—
it’s a scatter of moments
between the storms and the sunshine.
And I am learning,
slowly,
achingly,
to stop knocking.
About the Creator
Diane Foster
I’m a professional writer, proofreader, and all-round online entrepreneur, UK. I’m married to a rock star who had his long-awaited liver transplant in August 2025.
When not working, you’ll find me with a glass of wine, immersed in poetry.
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Day 4 of Quitting
If this is how sobriety feels, maybe it’s better to go through life a little buzzed… this, along with other hits like, I want to kill myself, I wish I was dead, and I’m going to throw myself off a bridge have been the only thoughts on rotation these past few days. I promise myself that if, in a month, I still feel like this (‘this’ meaning despondent, full of rage, and simultaneously numb) I can go back to smoking. Until mid-February though? Nicotine is off the table.
By sleepy drafts5 days ago in Longevity
Comments (3)
🌷this is great
Diane, this was a great read. Atmospheric and magical almost, in a dusty, spooky way. I loved these lines: a laugh trapped in wallpaper, a sigh curled under the rug.
Very well-wrought! There is way more inner space than outer space. "Far more important than where my body dwells Is how I choose to dwell in my body."