The Door That Waits

I keep catching my breath

like it’s a moth on the glass,

soft and frantic,

drawn to the place where the light slips through.

The door hasn’t moved—

but something in the way it waits

feels personal.

There’s a hush before footsteps,

a hum beneath the floorboards—

as if the air remembers you,

as if the walls lean in closer

when no one’s watching.

Outside, wind stirs

the leaves like old pages

and everything feels

half-written, unfinished,

hanging in the hush

just before a name is spoken.

And then—

I realize it’s not you

I’m waiting for.

It’s the version of me

that knew how to let go,

the one who smiled at closed doors

and meant it.

But tonight,

I sit in the soft flicker of maybe,

cradling the ache

like it might bloom into something

other than memory.

Still, the air shifts

like it knows an answer

I don’t.

And the door—

the door never blinks.