I have never paid
enough attention
to doors and the way
they look: pulled open,
ajar, or closed.
Or how they bear memories,
of blows and the passionate
kisses pressed up against
their spines.
The worn lock
screaming secrecy
and the scuff marks
chuckling mischief.
Light seeps through them,
four clean lines,
a shining frame.
Or it tumbles, in abundance,
as if the door were a window
into another world,
another life.
Or it is the white light
beckoning you beyond
the door frames and boundaries
of this place.
Reminding you beginnings
all start the same way;
whether the door is open,
ajar, or closed.
A door is not a door
until the threshold disappears
beneath your feet, and is lost.
© Kristiana Reed 2019
Beautiful 😀
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Thank you ☺️
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Simply beautiful.
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Thank you 💛
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