Return

I have pinned maps beneath the lining,
every label a verse I never spoke.
The wheels taught me to follow the echo
of steps that forget the way.
In my secret pocket I keep a stone
and a word ripped from the wind: “stay.”
I smiled at trains, I learned to make peace
with doors that closed my face.
How many keys I saw fall in the corridors,
how many nights I learned to walk alone.
Fear? Only the sound of opening,
the risk that they open my silences.
Tonight I return, placing the diary on the floor,
I hide in the light of empty suitcases.
When she reopens my old skin,
she will find a small gift: a road in the lining.