My Door

It stayed open.
It did not think of moving
To stand in your way
When you walked out
With the suitcase
That emptied the closet
Of my dreams.

It stayed close.
It did not stir
When you knocked.
It did not open itself
To welcome the dulcet hymn
Of the thousand promises
You carried in your trunk.

There’s nothing wrong
With my door.
It works perfectly fine.
It opens and closes still
But on its own now.
No longer according
to your whims.

The hinges have learned
To say, “Enough!”


//Sherma E. Benosa
August 2, 2008; 1057pm