Your boots are by the door,
my love. In hopes you will pick them up again.
I think of your feet, so small.
Toes curled up against holey socks, so cold.
We could have been a city of two, my love.
But you lost your passport somewhere along the way.
Sometimes it feels like your boots are
all I have left of you. Worn leather, whispered promises.
You said we would be forever, in the way
that kids believe that so wholly. But forever is a long time, my love.
And I put my boots next to yours, my love.
Tie the laces together like hands holding tight.
I brush the cobwebs off your boots, my love.
Head over heels for ten years, hasn’t quit yet.
Phone buzzes then, your name on the screen.
The text says you’re back, my heart says you’re coming home.