A Visit That Doesn’t Heal

He walks in like smoke

curling cold around the old chair,

a cigarette ash falling slow

into the overflowing tray.

That cheap cologne and bitter talk,

the grudging smile that never reaches his eyes,

a voice sharp and thin slicing through my ribs,

twisting the ache that was already there.

His words land hard, flat,

stale air thick with things unsaid,

a knot in my stomach tying itself tighter

as I brace for the usual bruises.

A visit that doesn’t heal,

a dull scrape that lingers long after

the door shuts behind his slow retreat,

carrying the ghost of smoke and regrets.