The Unopened Box

I found it in the corner—

my handwriting on the side,

the date two years ago,

dust on top like punctuation

at the end of a sentence

I never meant to finish.

Two years. That's how long

I've lived here. That's also how long

the box has sat here,

sealed, waiting,

full of things I thought I needed

before I understood I didn't.

I didn't open it.

I just stared.

And that's when I learned

the difference—between a house

and a home.

A home means opening the box.

A home means deciding what stays,

what goes, what matters.

A home means unpacking.

This is just a house.

Just a place where I sleep and wake,

where nothing of me

has settled into the walls,

where the box can sit for two years

and I don't need what's inside it,

and that's exactly how I know

I don't belong here.

The dust accumulates.

The handwriting fades.

Two years.

And I understand:

I'm not staying.

I'm just here.

I'm just passing through

a place that will never know

I lived here at all.