Something scratches, not sound,
but shape. The edge of a shadow.

I do not call it by name.
Even the birds hesitate to describe sky.
Even the dead
they long for it, and it showers them.

It comes in moments:
the spoon lifted,
the glass unbroken,
the wrist staying whole,
though nothing insists it should.

It dresses in light, thin as regret,
then leaves.
A thought unspoken,
burning a ring on the tongue.

I keep the door unlatched
for the possibility of paws.
A cat might wander in.
Or
you, trailing the smell of rain and half-said sentences.

The room holds its breath.
I do, too.
You do not come.

This is how it ruins:
with the almost.
It draws a seat at the table,
unseen,
and eats first.

I’ve been kissed by fire.
She was a woman,
impossible not to watch,
impossible to touch without consequence.
She didn’t save me.
She lit the match,
watched me burn,
and She never looked away.

I wait beside the open door.
I name nothing.
I listen
for the hinge.