Softness in the Shut Door

The bedroom door cracked just a sliver—

a wedge of light spilling onto cold linoleum.

I sat there,

breath shallow, counting the spaces

between our silence.

Your face, a map of tears still wet,

etched soft in the dark hallway,

and I wanted to fold it up like a letter,

press mercy like a coin against my palm.

But instead, I stayed stuck in that spill of light,

something fragile and half-remembered,

breathing between the snap of that door,

the hard floor beneath,

and the weight of not saying

what might soften anything.