Again, The Same Door

The door was blue. Or green, some color

That held the afternoon inside it, thick

As honey, thick as... no, that's not it.

It was October. Had to be October

Because you wore that jacket, wool,

The one with buttons like small wheels.

I knocked. Three times. Or was it four?

The sound comes back at odd moments

In the shower, during meetings, or

When rain hits the windows

That hollow knock of knuckle against wood,

Of asking for what won't be given.

You answered. This I know for certain.

Your face appeared, framed by the jamb,

And something passed between us there

A look, a word, a scream, what?

Memory edits out the crucial parts,

Keeps only what serves its cruel purpose.

I said what did I say? Something

About returning what was yours.

A book? A sweater? Some excuse

To stand there in your doorway, begging

Without begging, hoping you might

Invite me in. You didn't.

The conversation lasted minutes.

Hours, Seconds. Time collapsed

The way it does when you're drowning,

When every word could be the last

Worth saying, when silence stretches

Like a rope you're hanging from.

You thanked me. Thanked me! As if I

Were some kind stranger returning

A wallet found upon the street.

Your courtesy was sharp as glass,

Clean as the space between us that

I couldn't cross, wouldn't dare cross.

The door closed. This is where it ends,

This is where it starts again:

The sound of wood meeting wood,

The click of lock, the thud of finality.

But doors, once closed, stay closed except

In memory, where they never do.

I walk away. I'm always walking

Away from that blue door, that green door,

That door the color of forget.

My footsteps sound loud on the path.

Or maybe that's my heart. Or maybe

That's the sound of coming back,

Again, to knock. Again, to wait.

Again, to hear that hollow sound

Of asking for what won't be given.