He slammed the door behind him. The impact made a picture fall from the wall. Ironically, it was our picture.
The room was silent as I stood there, frozen, staring at the closed door with painful tears gathering up in my eyes. I wanted him to return, to open the door and come back to me, but I couldn’t run after him. His anger made him leave, and if his heart could not make him stay…then I had to let him go.
Something happened to him, something that stole the sparkle in his eyes, but he would not come to me. He would not allow me to hold him; to whisper to him. His past was hurting him. He could not forgive the people who had wronged him, who had torn him apart inside, and so he cried…but not to me. If only he had come to me. If only he would have allowed me to hold him and whisper to him a song of sweet serenity, then perhaps he would have known that I was strong enough to hold his hand through the storm.
But, no, he ran away from me straight into the misery of his anger. I waited for him, but he would not come to me.
He slammed the door behind him. The impact made the picture fall from the wall. Ironically, it was our picture and painfully…..it was my heart.
~T.S. Wilkins~
