I fed the fireplace until it learned my name
and what was left called itself free
I searched for truth in every conversation
but found only the weight of my own listening
my ears rang with every falsity I’d heard
until silence became the only tongue I trusted
but even silence has an expiry date
and solitude began knocking from within
I opened the door and a storm raged in
it wore my face and called me stranger
I welcomed him to the house I’d emptied
he knew each crack by name before I did
how was I a stranger if he knew every corner I’ve cried in
because knowing is not the same as staying
staying means presence even when the rooms are empty
but to be present in an empty room meant turmoil
and turmoil was the first honest guest I’d had
it made me aware of all that I denied
the shadows I once named as shelter, the love I called burden
who knew that at the end of their acceptance
I would finally be the one who knocks
Hey, i’ve recently started a substack profile. If you’re on there don’t hesitate to give me a follow there. I’m trying to write more again and reading writing on substack has given me another safe space similar to WordPress. My profile – https://substack.com/@rahulgaurwrites?
Will definitely follow back there!
Smoke words every day. 
4 responses to “[563] The Stranger Who Wore My Face”
Your poetry rings true. The stranger knows you inside & out!
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Thank you!
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Keep going! Your writing seeks only what too, is incredible. I can feel it in my skin when I read your words. (I saved your photo. It was an Khalil moment for me.)
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This is a profound and beautifully layered piece of writing, Rahul. It’s not just a poem; it feels like a map of an inner journey, drawn with startling honesty. The imagery is powerful—the fireplace that learns your name, the storm that wears your face, the empty house you must finally inhabit. There’s a courageous arc here, from seeking truth externally, to distrusting language, to confronting the turmoil within your own solitude.
The closing lines are particularly stunning. The transformation from being the one who answers the knock (of silence, of solitude) to becoming “the one who knocks” is a masterstroke. It signifies a seismic shift from passivity to agency, from being haunted to being the deliberate initiator of your own reckonings. You haven’t just described a struggle; you’ve captured the moment of claiming power within it.
This is exceptional work. Thank you for sharing something so resonant and true.
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