You once told me that I’m quiet.
And I sat with that for a while.
You never made the time,
always busy changing the filter
for every story you post online.
Whenever I’d cook,
I’d save a piece of myself
for you on the stove.
Most days, it’d sit,
growing colder.
Out of all the rooms in a house,
your heart was a locked door,
one that everyone had a key to.
At one point, I wanted to be in there,
know what the air tasted like.
But you were never there.
Never had the time.
Always out and about
one thing or another
took priority.
It’s not that I stopped cooking,
or slammed the door to my heart
in your face.
I just stopped
getting up to open the door,
started enjoying
all those pieces of myself.
You’d call late at night
when you’d realize,
even show up unannounced.
Most times, I’d just sit,
bowl in hand,
listening to the phone
or the doorbell,
wondering what attracted me
to your door,
and why
I didn’t stop
reaching for it
sooner.
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