Part III · Exposure
Creaks
Sometimes the floorboards creak,
and I wonder—ever so softly—
if it’s the ghost of you passing through.
Sometimes the wind slips in,
threading itself through the open window,
and I hear your voice
like a hush in the rafters,
nudging me the way you used to.
That was before the breaking,
before the ache settled in the walls.
Resentment—
what a bitter-tasting word
for something I never meant to grow.
I speak aloud in the dark
as if the silence might soften,
as if it might return your voice
instead of this ache that echoes back.
I don’t dial your number—
a court order cages that urge.
You drew that line with your own hands,
called it love
while it left bruises.
Still, I leave the door unlocked each night,
just maybe—
maybe—
you’ll return
like a whisper,
just once more.