You cut up fruit and leave it on the counter
a silent offering, a peace I can't quite trust.
I never asked, but I eat it anyway.
It tastes like all the words we've never said.
Your voice echoes in my head,
that one thing you said when I was eight,
when I brought home something fragile,
and you broke it with a look.
Now, I break myself before anyone else can.
Your hugs still feel like home,
but I can't tell you about my day.
What if I'm still not enough?
What if you see through me again?
Would you even notice
how much I've tried
to grow in the cracks you left behind?
I miss you
when we're only a wall apart.
And sometimes,
I wish that wall were thicker.
Or thinner.
Or not there at all.
I ask myself if we're okay.
I ask myself if you're okay.
Do you ask yourself the same?
And when I hear your footsteps
coming down the hall,
I wonder
is this the moment we'll finally figure it out?
Or will you just leave another plate of fruit
without saying a word?
