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