My heart is a door.

After work, when I come to my house,

The door is locked.

The brain says, help.

The brain says, stuck, stuck.

I fumble around in my pockets.

After searching tirelessly for my key,

When I realize I forgot,

The heart starts to pound.

The brain says, not now.

The brain says, not after all this, not after all this.

I run, the wind’s sobs thundering in my ears.

I round a corner, the rain’s pattering footsteps chasing after me.

I cry, raindrops tracing rivulets down my skin.

The brain says, I can’t ask for help.

The brain says, that’s selfish, that’s selfish.

The streetlights hum and flicker.

Their glow leads me down a dimly-lit avenue.

Puddles of rain splash my socks soaked with each step.

I reach his place.

I knock on the door.

His heart is a door.

As it rains, pours, when I come to his house,

The door opens.

He says, “Do you need help?”

He smiles, pulls me close, and strokes my rain-soaked hair.

He says, “I’m here, I’m here.”

He says, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

He pulls an umbrella out of the bin by the door.

I feel bad for making him do this for me so late at night.

But he grins as he raises the umbrella over our heads,

A force-field shielding me from the rain.

The streetlights feel brighter as he walks me home,

Back to the door.

He pulls a spare key out of his pocket.

I didn’t even know he had it.

He unlocks the door.

I wipe the tears from my face.

I’m home.

The brain says, happy.

The heart says, safe.