I woke to the windows beaded in dew,
the world outside fogged soft,
the sun trying —politely, stubbornly —
to thread itself through the glass
and pull me back into the day,
a day that still feels like a room
I’m learning to live in.
My iced tea waited in its crystal glass,
the one with the tiny bite missing from the rim —
where I dropped it last spring and refused to let it die.
A swirl of sweet cream and vanilla rose to the top,
curling into the morning like a quiet invitation.
Those nights on borrowed couches and guest beds —
God, the ceiling fans humming,
the soft thrum of another family’s refrigerator,
the quiet of someone else’s house settling around me.
I placed my shoes neatly by the door,
keys aligned on the nightstand,
pretending routine could anchor me.
Pretending someone might come looking.
I catch myself setting out two glasses,
like my hands know something my mind hasn’t caught up to.
Not on purpose — just muscle memory for a future
my body seems to know before I do.
One for me, and one for whoever’s meant to arrive.
I’ve started wearing perfume
before grocery runs,
letting my hair fall the way men tend to notice
when they’re truly paying attention.
I don’t know his name,but I know the shape of him —
the kind of man whose footsteps
settle a room before he speaks.
A laugh with weight to it,
a touch that feels sure, not startled,
and a quiet gravity that slips into my life
the way fog slips under morning light —
the kind of presence a home readies itself for
long before the person walks through the door.
The other day, I found myself painting —
a sure sign the noise outside me
had finally lowered enough for me to hear my own breath.
I can be in a room full of people
and still be untouched by it,
solitude blooming around me like a second skin.
The light fell across the canvas just right,
recognizing a version of methat’s only there when I’m quietly whole —
a version with room enough for someone else.
There was a second toothbrush in my cart
at Target last week.
For no reason.
Or maybe for the oldest reason of all:
my body knows something I don’t.
Tonight, I’m lighting a candle
and locking my door.
I’m turning my phone face-down
on the table.
I’m brushing my hair as a ritual,
whispering a quiet hello
to the life walking toward me.
Maybe I’ve been making room for him
without noticing.
Somewhere, he’s finishing his day,
and he has no idea
how close he is to becoming the answer
to a question I stopped asking.
And if anyone insists
this poem is about him —
that’s simply coincidence.
s.g
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
The Official Poetry Collection of WSS
Poem was also published on Sheridan's Medium Channel and on Women Who Write
