Threshold

Between the closing and the open, a door holds its breath. Light pools at the seam— neither here nor there, but both, suspended in the amber of arrival.

The hinge remembers every turning. It knows the weight of indecision, the shy footstep that pauses before crossing into whatever waits on the other side of silence.

I've learned to live in these margins, these parenthetical moments where nothing has yet crystallized into shape. Here, I am all possibility— unmade and beautiful with it.

The threshold doesn't judge. It simply holds the tension between what I was and what I'm becoming, patient as a stone worn smooth by reaching hands.