Between Bruises and Blooms

The trees bowed low
around the old house,
their branches woven together
like black lace.

I placed a candle
on the cracked stone steps.

Its light barely reached the doorway.

That was enough.

Some places
do not wish
to be fully seen.

The windows stared back,
their empty eyes
filled with shadows
that moved
just slower
than my own.

I never crossed
the threshold.

Some invitations
are spoken
without words.

And some houses
are still waiting
for the people
who never came home.