The Hinge

The door hangs on its pivot— not quite open, not quite sealed. A breath could tip it either way.

Outside, the birch trees shed their silver, each leaf a small surrender, a letting go that sounds like whispers.

I watch the light fracture through gaps, amber pools gathering on the floor like spilled honey, like time collecting in corners.

The world is balanced on this moment, waiting. Waiting. Everything I haven't said yet lives in the space between the hinges.