echoes at the threshold 

you said you'd be there—
an unwavering lighthouse
in the restless sea of my becoming.
you said your door was open,
always.
you said, “run to me,”
and i—barefoot, bleeding,
believed you.

but when i arrived,
soul unraveling at the seams,
i found silence
where solace should have stood.
your doorstep was colder
than the storm i had just fled.

i called your name
with the last thread of my voice,
the syllables frayed like torn pages
in a book no longer read.
but the wind swallowed every echo,
and your lights
never came on.

was your promise
a thing with conditions?
a flower that blooms
only in summer’s light—
wilting when the sky weeps?

did you offer safety
only when it cost you nothing?

the truth?
i was not looking for a savior.
only a hand,
a presence,
someone who meant their words
when my world
meant nothing.

and now—
i carry the ghost of your “always”
like a key to a door
that never existed.

and i wonder:
how many others
stand at the thresholds of people
who once said,
“you can come to me,”
only to learn—
some doors
were never meant to open.
only meant to make you knock
long enough
to feel the echo
of your own loneliness.