Unsealed

He said he fixed it.

Primed and painted,

a fresh, false skin.

Tonight, I leaned my head

against the frame,

the wood still smelling

of cheap latex.

And felt it.

A cold tickle on my cheek,

a subtle breath

from the hall,

where the floorboards creak.

A hairline crack of pale light,

a thread of yellow,

between the new door and the old frame.

Proof of what's still

outside. Or what's

missing, inside.