The Door You Didn't Close

You didn’t take your coat.
Did you know you wouldn’t be back?
I still check the hall sometimes.
There’s a damp shape in the wallpaper
where the rain once steamed off your shoulders.
It hasn’t dried.
The kettle mourns you in its quiet whistle.
The window has started speaking—
not words,
but the sound your footstep used to make
on the gravel path.
I found your old gloves behind the sofa.
One curled. One open.
Like a question and its answer.
Your toothbrush leans alone in the cup.
I cannot throw it out.
It’s not grief.
It’s geography.
You are
in the fibres,
in the floorboards,
in the sudden chill of a room
that was warm five minutes ago.
They say time heals.
But the clock ticks
like it’s holding its breath.
Like it’s waiting
for your hand to lift
and close the door
you left open.