Still A Noun

How does one grow used to becoming more of a place than a person? Still a noun – not so different – but how did I turn into this? Her nails tapping on my window – like claws – like an animal to be let in out of the rain. And so often, it was raining. She left the water on my carpet; shook it out of her hair and smiled. Hungry. A wide expanse of teeth shining. It felt dangerous to love her. To be the person that she came to – the room with the light on, always waiting. Just in case. To be a shelter – to have my heart turned into hearth, and her head pressed against my clavicle. To want – God, I only wanted her to be safe. I would’ve given anything. Had given so much already. When the night passes without her, I have trouble sleeping. Watch the glass of my window so much my reflection fades to nothing; no eyes, no nose, no mouth. I am just a house – but sometimes, when she appears in the darkness like a dream, I get to be a home. And I don’t miss my name. I’d still rather be nothing, waiting alone… until she comes to me.


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