Half-Packed

I stand at the edge with one foot turned,

 A suitcase waiting, barely earned.

 The air hums soft with something new,

 But old ghosts tug like morning dew.

I dream of doors that open wide,

 Of skies untainted, worlds untried.

 Yet something here, beneath my skin,

 Whispers, stay… it’s not quite the end.

The walls I’ve held still know my name,

 Each corner echoes all I gave.

 The work, the care, the silent weight -

 Now feel unseen, depreciated.

I ache to breathe a freer sky,

 But I fear the wind might pass me by.

 To leave means shedding skin I wore,

 To walk alone through one more door.

So here I stand, unsure, undone - 

 A setting moon, a rising sun.

 My heart, a map of push and pull…

 Half longing, and half the ties I can’t let go.

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