There is a line
not drawn in chalk
or stone
or anything so visible
it lives in the slight wear
of a threshold
in fingerprints
left upon a handle
in the hinge that learns
who enters without knocking
between a word given freely
and a word returned
wearing a face
I do not recognize
You arrive with empty hands
and the door opens
A phrase leaves quietly
carrying its light elsewhere
A story returns
wearing another voice
Trust is a latch left open
certain the doorway
will be honored
Yet boundaries remember
They keep the bend
of every footprint
the warmth in a chair
recently vacated
the shape of a hand
lifted from dust
even after the hallway
falls silent
even after the echoes
have forgotten their source
The doorway remembers
not the taking
but the absence of return
The key left waiting
in its lock
The threshold crossed
without a glance behind
Because every doorway
leans on another frame
and every invitation
keeps the shape
of the hand that opened it
The crossing was never
the break in the frame
Only the forgetting
that the door was opened
not surrendered
DoorWays can lead one in different directions.
Thank you for reading. I can see them when I click on my posts, but I don’t know they are sitting here if I don’t check.
“between a word given freely
and a word returned
wearing a face
I do not recognize”
Powerfully penned, CG. Another excellent write with many layers my friend. Really love the depth of the stanza above. Amazing read as always. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian. That line is where the poem shifts its weight. I’m glad it resonated with you. 🙂
Liminal spaces and remembrances…the stir of the spirit or vagrant breeze? Such twilights whisper to the soul of passages freighted with more 🌼
Thank you, Joe. Those in‑between hours do have their own quiet pull.
I like this ink Curly
Bat