You keep returning
to the same word

as if it stands untouched.

As if it wasn’t already used
to cross what you knew
was never open.

You say it now
like something being taken.

Like something you’re owed.

But I remember
how easily it moved
when it was still yours.

How often.
How certain.

How it carried on
without hesitation
through something
I made clear from the beginning.

And still
you hold it up again
asking for it back

as if that proves anything.

As if placing everything
in the exact same position

somehow becomes repair.

I am supposed to call that trust.

To hand you the same access
and believe
this time
it will mean something different.

But what you’re asking for
is not proof.

It is permission
to return
to the same place

and call it progress.

And what I am asking for
is simple.

For once

choose something
that is not centered on you.