Just This Side

Stood in the doorway again.

Phone warm in my hand,

like a small, dying bird.

Living room carpet,

a faded ocean.

Kitchen tiles,

a cold, hard shore.

The worn strip of metal,

between one world and the next,

caught the light

from two different windows,

a dull, split gleam.

Dust motes

doing their slow, intricate drift,

unbothered by choices.

Should I step in,

or turn back,

go out, stay put?

The air was still

on both sides.

Nothing urgent,

just the slow drag

of not knowing

which way to lean.

And the phone

grew heavier.