The Unseen House

The mail slot on their door, a dark, thin line,

swallows letters, bills, small ads.

It’s the closest thing to a sign

of life inside, what small goods adds

to their days. Today, a curtain moved,

a fraction, a sliver, then closed tight.

And I saw, for a second, disproved

my imaginings. A lamp, a soft light.

Not the one I'd pictured, stark and tall,

but something smaller, a low, warm gleam.

How many details slip, how much we fall

short of knowing, lost in a silent dream.

They walk past, sometimes, a nod, a quick glance,

but never words, never a shared thought.

Just the slow, quiet, accidental dance

of two lives, forever caught

in separate houses, side by side.