The Door We Carry

Not every threshold opens outward.
Some hinge inward, slow and unseen—
a quiet swing beneath the ribs,
where a pulse decides whether to hold or to let go.

We mistake light for arrival,
but light is only invitation.
The true crossing begins when we realize
the door was never in the wall,
but in the self we keep rebuilding.

Each time we approach that shimmering seam,
we bring a little more of what we’ve learned to leave behind:
the words that failed us,
the hours that fled,
the shadows we thought were ours alone.

And then,
in that brief interval before step or retreat,
a listening happens.
Something ancient—maybe memory,
maybe the interstice itself—leans close.

It doesn’t speak in commands.
It hums, almost amused,
as if to say, There you are again, carrying me.