Between Bruises & Blooms

The compass has not changed.

North is still north.

Home is still the place
where their names
live in every room.

And yet somehow
the road has been bent
by hands that were never meant
to move it.

I keep thinking
there must be a word
for this kind of waiting—

when something belongs
on its way back to you,

when the date has already passed,

when everyone knows
which direction the car
was supposed to be facing,

and still
the night keeps swallowing
mile after mile.

It is almost morning.

The sky has begun
that slow bruising
before dawn,

and I am awake
with the terrible knowledge
that love cannot physically
reach across provinces
and turn a vehicle around.

So I sit here

with my hands empty,

my jaw clenched,

my heart pacing
the same invisible highway
over and over.

There are people
who mistake control
for protection.

People who believe
if they hold something
long enough,
it becomes theirs
to decide.

But north
is still north.

Home
is still home.

And no matter
how long someone
keeps the road twisted,

eventually

every compass
points back
to where it was
always meant to go.