She Doesn’t Have to Knock

Light doesn’t knock.
Doesn’t announce itself.
It just appears,
like an old friend
someone who used to live here
but has moved on.
At least for a day.

It stretches across the blinds,
reaches across the bed covers
like someone I adore
someone that I hate to see go.

When she does, she doesn’t wake me up.
Doesn’t say that she’s here.
She presses her cheek against mine
and rubs her hand across my chest,
finding every reason to stay.

Most times I don’t speak.
I just enjoy her presence,
letting the warmth become the reason
I smile.

The light crawls up the wall,
scattering the shadows,
remembering what it feels like to be wanted.

Time melts
anticipation rushing, second after second,
regardless of the inevitable.

The room itself grows quieter,
feeling the regret of a slow goodbye.

The curtain doesn’t close.
The blinds stay open.
The shadows come back,
asking why the room looks so different.