A growing collection of spoken word pieces. The first four lines of each are open — the rest unlock at checkout. New pieces added as the notebook fills.
I rehearsed an apology I never got to give. The kitchen light was on like she'd left it for somebody. Like she knew the long way always loops back to a porch. Like grace was just a hallway light nobody bothered to flip.
He came home smelling like a city that owed him money. Set his hat down softer than he set down his name. Asked me how my day went and meant it. Even the silence between us had calluses.
I had to leave the man they expected at the door. Couldn't bring him in with me — wouldn't fit through the frame. Took my shoes off. Took my flinch off. Took my old voice off. What was left could finally sit down at the table.
Before the aisle there was a hallway, and before that a heart. Before the heart there was a question only you could answer twice. Yes when it was easy. Yes when the easy ran out. Today the room is watching but the vow is older than the room.
Be slower than the world wants you to be. Apologize first when you know you should, and last when you don't. Read your Bible like it's a letter your grandfather mailed you. And when she walks in, stand up — even if your legs are tired.
"More verses arriving as the notebook fills."
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