The Locksmith

The Locksmith

I gather your nights

one by one,

turning each key

inside my mind.

I gather the breaths

you try to hide,

the quiet fear

behind your door.

I gather the cracks

you paint with light,

all the places

your grief still leaks.

I gather the rooms

you never enter,

their stale air

soft on my tongue.

I gather the names

you whisper once,

the ones that cling

like frozen dust.

I gather your sorrow

left in corners,

folded gently

where you forget.

I gather the weight

of your old wounds,

feeling them shift

inside the lock.

I gather the shadows

you sleep beside,

each one waiting

for me to call.

I gather the past

you tried to bury,

listening close

as the hinges groan.

I gather your truth

without a word,

my hands steady

as the door gives way.

I gather your silence

as you stand there,

knowing I hold

what you once kept.

And when I leave,

I gather one more thing—

the part of you

that followed me out.