The Kept Thing

On the things we protect by never pursuing

Some things we never risk
because we can't afford to lose them.

The letter written, then scrunched into the bin,
only to write again,
folded once, twice,
then buried in the bottom drawer.

The message typed out in full,
read once, then deleted
before you hit send.

The stones we carry in our pockets,
now worn too smooth
for the harshness of the world.

We called it nurturing.
We called it safe.
We did not call it
what it was.

There is a kind of love
that will not move toward its desire.
Like the traveller who has memorised all the roads
and never left the house.

You know this.
The thing you held so carefully
it could not breathe.

The door you did not open
because it was easier to pretend
it was locked all along.

Years and years go by.
And the thing, untouched,
is still perfect.
Still yours.
Still waiting
in the dark —

the dark of never.

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