The Click and Thud

A small click first, a precise metallic sound,

then the soft resistance, a quick, dull thud.

The air in the hall shifts, feels unbound,

a heavy quiet settling in my blood.

My neighbor’s kid, off to their late, quick shift,

a fleeting presence, now a solid absence made.

It snips the air, a sudden, brutal rift,

a silence where a laugh or voice once played.

Like when my sister left, the same soft jar

of the frame, the finality of the latch.

A tiny tremor through the floor, a scar

of quiet, on a day too hard to catch.

It leaves a vacuum, where a person stood.

A sudden weight. A knowing, just too good.