Excuses

People leave like streetlights

switching off one by one

just when the road gets darkest.

Their voices fade into excuses,

busy days, unread messages,

a silence shaped like your name.

You learn how heavy the night is

when no one answers your call,

when strength is something

you borrow only from yourself.

Then one day,

a knock.

A familiar shadow at your door.

They return with storms in their pockets,

with hands outstretched,

with memories polished just enough

to look like care.

And you recognize the pattern:

absence is their language,

need is their translation.

Still, you listen.

Still, you open the door.

Because even knowing this,

you have not learned how to disappear

when someone needs you.