The Threshold

The glass holds last light like a cupped breath, amber where dust motes drift their slow geometry.

Between the lamp's warmth and the blue pressing in— this corridor where nothing is quite itself. The curtain doesn't know if it's closing or opening.

Your shadow on the wall is thinner than memory, darker than the evening that carries it. We stand in the hallway of becoming, where thought hesitates before sleep.

And somewhere a door clicks softly into its frame, a lock finding its purpose. The house settles into darkness like a sigh that finally reaches the end.