Once

My hand was on the doorknob,
cold under smooth fingers
dressed in suede for the cold,
while inside the fire burned warm.
The night outside was hardened
against the light inside
but my breath was not hissed
until I had made up my mind.
Inside, the cold seeped a little
through fissures around the glass.
Outside was purely against reason.
This was the coldest night of my life.

An echo of my own voice, crying,
from under the soul blankets
of days and days and days and...
just days of memories I hate.
No one was listening to me,
while my heart crumbled
to know that I was leaving,
into coldness and loneliness
of a dark winter and a darkness
the only friend I ever had.

No one was looking as I turned
the brass beneath my fingers.
No one heard the doorsweep
as it crunched against the ice.
No one's, but my own, ears
felt deep, subzero wind blast me.
The tick of the furnace,
the shift of the picture frame,
the swallowed light of the room,
and stinging ice up my nose
told me I made the first step.

The instance was quick.
A brush with death, absurd,
and then I turned back around.
I walked back into the house.
I walked back into my life.

There was a lot to fix.
Rusted pipes leaking,
draining out from my eyes.
Cracks forming under my eyes,
while my foundation gave way
to the termites of the past
constantly eating away my hope.

Yet, I didn't leave.
I stayed, and nothing
was ever quite the same.