There are two on the bed—

yours and mine,

but neither speaks aloud

what they carry.

The one on the left is locked,

like the part of you

that still looks away

when I stare too long.

Its hinges creak with memory—

of hands not mine,

of moments folded and kept.

Inside:

dresses softened by years,

lace that once danced

on another kind of skin,

a scent of time,

still warm with what was.

But then—

your voice,

low and unguarded,

offers me a different key:

a question, a dare,

a walk to someone else’s door.

We laugh

too loud for strangers,

our steps unsteady

on cracked sidewalks,

but in this moment—

you let me closer

than the lock ever did.

And if the night forgets

to end just yet—

if the moon lets us wander

a little longer—

maybe we’ll unpack nothing

but a look,

and leave the rest

to dreams

that bloom between

two suitcases,

slightly ajar.