The pull starts with a jacket hung by the door,
the dent in a pillow that keeps its own time.

You walk by like an uneasy guest,
feet too loud against the hush –

while the pictures stay nailed to the walls,
their faces have averted their eyes.

The windows don’t blink.
The floors don’t argue.

Every closed door, a decision.
Every open door, a dare.

Even the dust has its own politics –
it clings tightest where once you sat longest.

You tell yourself that you’ll only stay a minute,
then find yourself in the same kitchen chair,

staring at a clock that doesn’t tick anymore.
Who did you leave when you packed a suitcase?

The gravity here isn’t heavier;
it isn’t lighter, either, just certain –

the way a falling glass knows the floor
before it knows it might break.

When you finally stand, ready to leave,
your feet hesitate by the threshold,

as if they, too, are unsure
of which world they belong to.