The Door Persists

In the incandescent evanescence, my state of existence

I hear the drumming of knuckles on sandstone.

Every hour, on the hour.

Every minute, second, losing power.

Power to concentrate, power to contemplate—

Hesitation builds, as my breathing it hitches—

the marching of bones on clay.

<>

At the stroke of midnight through to midday,

and from midday back around to midnight,

I hear the rattling of chains on flesh.

Every breath, every trimerous exhalation.

Behind the sandstone wall and beechwood door,

I fear... as my breath mimics theirs, I dread.

<>

As I sit in my meditative state, hoping—

hoping for sweet, peace-bringing salvation—

my hopes are dashed as the rapping at the door

raps no more.

<>

Reaching... my fingers curling round the cool brass,

pulling the handle—it resists as much as I.

The bolt retracts neatly into its perfect hiding space.

I saw you, there in ceremonial white, in gowns so bright.

Spectral or corporeal—are we ever really sure?

<>

"I think it's dark and it looks like rain," you said,

and the drumming, it insists.

As I looked at your eyes, your eyes were burning red.

"And the wind is blowing

like it's the end of the world," you said.

<>

The chains, they rattle.

Your bones, they rap.

And the echo—

persists.

The door

persists.

The drum

persists.

<>

As I kissed your lips and took you into my embrace,

cold and unkind, full of regret, need, and lust—

"And it's so cold, it's like the cold if you were dead."

Then you smiled for a second.

And then that smile turned.

Agony at inactivity. Stuck in motion.

<>

But the door insists.

The drums persist.

"Sometimes..." you flinch as my bone-bare fingers caress your palms.

"You make me feel," I said, as the smile drained from your face,

"like I'm living at the edge of the world."

<>

As the knock reverberates throughout the stone wall—

"It's just the way I smile," you said.

But your smile drained from your face.

Misery and despondency, instead of joy, filled its place.

<>

We tried, we strived, for peace and perfection.

But in hindsight and self-analysis—

perhaps we chased the wind.

<>

As the last beat of the last drum in the distance sounds,

as your heart mirrors mine, your breath mine—

this moment can't last. We know it can't last.

But hold on, as we feel the pull of the edge of the world.

The end of us.

The end of our everything.

<>

The door insists—it’s time to call.

To call time on all we have known. All we have endured.

Was it in vain? A desperate attempt to remain—here?

As the knock reverberates around my soul, I wonder.

I turn my back, as you walk away.

As you leave behind—us.

<>

In the incandescent evanescence, my state of existence.

I hear the drumming of knuckles on sandstone.

Every hour, on the hour.<

—

>Every minute, second, losing power.

Power to carry. Carry my own.

Without. Us.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author’s Note: As noted in the subtitle, this story was inspired by listening to Plainsong one too many times, the opening track on The Cure’s astonishing masterpiece, Disintegration. Lines from the song are quoted throughout, and its haunting atmosphere set the tone as I wrote this meditation on grief, memory, and the persistence of loss. While it stands entirely on its own, it’s connected in spirit to my other entry for the A Knock at the Door Challenge, Petrichor Between Us, as both pieces could be interpreted as reflections on the same event, seen through different outcomes.

Here is the track for your listening pleasure!

Here is my other entry for the same challenge:

Here is something lighter - only kidding: