Today's poem is based on a thought. We keep ourselves at a safe distance, in a state of unlove, needing others to affirm us, forgetting all the while, we have the key.
The door I stare at is closed.
The doorknob stiff to my touch, dutifully holding in the warmth of the house. I raise my knuckles to the wooden panel below the glass to announce my arrival.
As I wait I close my eyes. And I see you, sitting in the central room among all your boxes. I wonder if, through them, the reverberating sound of my knock will reach you.
You have come before to my calling, down the hallway to the entrance where I still stand. I have seen the answer of your form through the window; felt the searing life of your hand reaching towards the glass.
I have tasted your warmth.
One season you twisted the knob to creak the door open. You smiled as the door came to rest against the chain that held it from flying.
That's when I learned your drink with all my senses.
When I knock today there is no stirring. As my gaze drops I notice that my hand is poised to knock louder. For a second a question boils, and I drop my hand to my breast pocket.
Tender fingers trace the shape of a key.
What am I keeping?
© Danielle Rondeau 2015