The Woodpile

She stands in the doorway
like a question
she’s too afraid to ask.

The room is half-shadow,
half-memory.
Her hands shake,
but not from cold.

She’s piled all her longing
in the corner—
quiet, splintered,
waiting for a spark.

She doesn't need rescue.
She needs a reason
to stay upright.

The silence is heavy tonight.
It presses against her ribs
like hands that once held her
and then didn’t.

She whispers,
come back to my corner,
he is the only one left
to hear it.

Still, she waits.
Still, she believes.

Because some part of her
still thinks
that love
is a match
you can strike twice.