He feels like Home to me…. Unfortunately, this Home has squeaky stairs and wood across the windows. As I stand knocking at the door, I see a few fingers pull the drapes to peer out from the darkness. He doesn’t answer; he doesn’t think I can see him. He’s scared to face me because he fears letting go of his relationship patterns. He’s scared to face me because he doesn’t feel he deserves my love.
Part of him hopes that I’ll give up and walk away, and part of him hopes that I’ll keep knocking. He wants me to keep knocking in spite of his low self-esteem; he wants me to keep knocking in the face of his immaturity. He prays that I’ll keep knocking, and that I won’t give up on him. The truth is, he long ago gave up on himself, and I will never give up on me.
I realize that this feeling of Home is centred on a smell, his smell, and I will not base my future on a scent. This smell will be an archive in my memory, and if One walks past his Home they will see a grown man, silhouetted on a shade, crying into his hands.