The Visitor

by Lauren Skvarla


There’s no need to knock.

Like each time before, I knew you’d be back,

So, I left the door ajar.

For a moment, as I waited for you to return,

I thought perhaps you’d moved on.

Found another to embrace.

Found another to possess.


I realize I was naive.

Why did I ever trust myself?

Why did I believe you would leave me alone?

But I sense your warmth, and it’s familiar.

I feel your grip, and it’s reassuring.

You are my consistency — my companion.


They say, “Just don’t listen.”

How can I not listen when your every word permeates, saturates, satiates.   Your cries, as I count the minutes.

Your pleas, as I drive in solitude.

Your whispers, as I fall asleep.

Each lie you tell resounds in every word I speak.


Tomorrow, you will hear the slide of the bolt.

Deafening, reverberating, as I lock you out forever.

Then in a day — a week — a month —

I’ll crack the door open slowly, cautiously an inch at a time.

When I’m convinced that you’re not coming back,

I’ll step outside.

And you’ll be there waiting for me.