Eyes are the window to the soul,
or so I've been told.
But not yours.
Yours are more like doors.
Deep dark brown like the richest chocolate.
Or are they a shimmering sapphire blue?
I guess I don't know what room number you're in,
but when I finally knock,
will you let me in?
It's not like I need to come inside.
I like the rain.
Just leave me here to my thoughts,
no I'll be fine, don't worry.
Stay inside your shell.
Don't let anyone in.
You're safe from the storm.
These bitter words taste poisonous as I say them,
but I pretend that they help you.
I'll leave them at your door,
hoping you'll get them,
but praying you don't.
I'll lift my clenched fist to your door.
But what now?
It's a small decision.
Will you open up?
Will the tears creep through the cracks?
So many "maybe's",
to one simple action.
But it doesn't matter.
I'm not at your door.
I drove past,
and parked down the street.
I took a walk,
and told no one.
Why not?
You're not home anyway.
"I don't know whether to knock down your door,
or on it."
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