Salutation Is Not Love Poem by Henrietta Ezegbe

Nostalgia is a storyteller,
and she lies beautifully,
softening the edges of moments
that were never as gentle as she claims.

She whispers of late hours and familiar rituals,
simple gestures that once felt like devotion,
as if repetition were reverence.
Alas, they were only threads of comfort
woven into a pattern that never held its shape.

Consistency is not commitment.

A greeting repeated each night
cannot replace the steady weight
of a heart that chooses to stay.

For too long,
presence was mistaken for promise,
attention for intention—
crumbs for a feast.

Endings arrive quietly.
They come when the old pull loses force,
when the cycle stops calling,
when the silence no longer feels sharp.

And in that stillness, a truth settles:
patterns can indeed be outgrown
and what once felt impossible to escape
no longer calls your name.

This is how a chapter closes—
not with fire or force,
but with air returning to the room
and both feet set firmly on the floor.

The door does not slam.
It simply remains closed.

And you
do not knock.