The Softest Lock

You hit 'like' on a photo of my dinner

and the notification felt like a small, blunt puncture.

I remember the afternoon you stood in my kitchen

explaining why the money was gone and the trust was over.

I said 'don't worry about it' before you were even done,

a reflex of kindness that felt more like a leak.

I opened the door to let you out of the guilt

and ended up letting the draft stay in the room.

Now I watch that screen door bang against the frame,

a soft, rhythmic thud in the evening wind.

It never quite latches because I bent the hinge

trying to be the person who doesn't hold a grudge,

even when the house is getting cold.