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I stand where the plaster cracked years ago,

where posters fell with their own soft thud.

This room breathes smaller now,

and the chipped mug on the counter

reminds me of mornings I thought were mine alone.

The air hangs heavy with other people's memories,

even the dust settles like a thin apology.

My keys jingle in pockets,

but the locks don’t click the same.

Outside, the porch light flickers,

a crooked sign of welcome

or warning—I can’t tell.

I’m back,

but nothing is quite where I left it,

not even me.