07/10/2026
๐๐๐ฆ๐ข๐ ๐ข๐ฅ๐๐๐๐ก๐๐๐ฆ | ๐๐ก๐ ๐๐ข๐ ๐ก๐ญ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ญ ๐๐ง ๐
๐จ๐ซ ๐๐จ๐ฎ
๐๐บ ๐๐ช๐ค๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ญ๐ฆ ๐๐ฏ๐ฏ ๐๐ฐ๐บ ๐. ๐๐ข๐ญ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฃ๐ช๐ฏ
And if you saw that the front lights are on, will you enter the house you once called home? For I will welcome you with open arms.
I would keep the front lights on,
just in case you decide to come back,
just in case one day
the road you chose grows unfamiliar,
and you find yourself searching
for the comfort that the old home gave you.
I imagine you standing at the end of the driveway,
hesitating before the gate,
wondering whether anyone still lives here,
whether the place you once called yours
has forgotten the sound of your footsteps.
So I leave the light burning.
Not because I expect you every night,
but because hope has a habit
of disguising itself as routine.
Every evening I reach for the switch,
telling myself that tonight might be different,
that perhaps the darkness has finally grown tired of keeping you away.
But these days,
the light is beginning to dim.
Its glow no longer reaches
as far as it used to,
and I fear that one day
it will surrender to the silence
before you ever find your way back.
I hope that when you return,
if you ever do,
there is still enough light
to guide you home.
I hope the doors remain unopened
to another pair of hands,
for they still remember
the way yours used to knock,
the way you entered
as though you belonged here.
The walls still bear the scratches
and wounds you left behind.
They have not forgotten your anger,
nor your laughter,
nor the echoes of promises
that slowly became ghosts.
Every crack has learned your name,
and every room still holds
a version of you
that never truly left.
The windows still wait
for the silhouette they once knew,
and the floors still creak
as though expecting your weight.
Even the air inside this house
feels unfinished,
as though it has been holding its breath
since the day you walked away.
And I hope this house
does not welcome another soul
before you return.
Not because no one else deserves shelter,
but because it has never learned
how to belong to anyone else.
Perhaps that is its greatest flaw,
or perhaps it is mine.
For houses can be rebuilt.
Walls can be repainted.
Broken windows can be replaced.
But a home remembers.
It remembers every goodbye,
every embrace,
every tear that stained the floorboards,
every dream whispered beneath its roof.
And though time has weathered its paint
and dust has settled on its windowsills,
it still keeps a place for you.
So if one day you decide
that the new home never felt like home at all,
I hope you look towards the home we built.
If the front light is still burning,
know that it was never lit out of certainty,
but out of love.
Just know, that if you decide
to come back to your old home
and wonder if there still someone
staying inside as you hesitate to set your foot on the driveway.
I will be there, watching you
through the window, behind the curtains,
with shaking hands as I hold the tea-cup
as the air gasps around me for they
know that I waited for that moment, the moment that you come back to my arms.
And if you arrive too late,
finding only darkness where the light once stood,
know that it did not go out because I stopped waiting.
It simply grew tired
of illuminating an empty road.
๐๐ณ๐ต ๐ฃ๐บ ๐๐ข๐ฅ๐ฆ ๐๐บ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ญ ๐๐ข๐ญ๐ข๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ฏ
