“Close the door on your way out,”
She shouts with venom and fear,
Better to end then be ended,
Better to walk away than be walked away from.

“Close the door on your way out,”
She repeats with a bitter bite,
Better not to feel than to feel hurt,
Better not to see than be seen.

He doesn’t want me, she thinks to herself.
Of course this would end, how could it not.
Love is like unpicked fruit,
It falls to the ground and perishes.

“Are you sure this is what you want,” he asks,
A note of shock and surprise in his voice.
“Are you sure you want me to leave,” he asks,
A hint of hope masked behind forced bravado.

She pauses for a flutter of heartbeats,
Beginning to perceive her pessimistic pattern,
For she’d sent so many out that door before,
Something inside her demanded to be left alone.

He sees something in her eyes,
Is she holding back a tear?
He takes a step closer to her,
And then another.

“We can work this out,” he whispers,
His best attempt to mend this fractured moment.
“I . . . I,” she sputters,
Why is he still here, what do I say?

No one had ever stayed,
No one had ever tried,
No one had ever offered,
No one had ever shown her this much.

She looks at the doorway to her apartment,
Her slender man in his gray jacket,
Rooted, firm, undeterred.
A blossom of hope emerges within her.

She takes a deep breath and then another.
Her next words linger in the space between them,
“Come back,” she whispers,
“Close the door on your way in.”