The Gap

The neighbor's door slams at 6:47 AM.

Then again at 7:15.

I'm awake for both.

I can see it from my window—

the mesh torn in one corner,

the frame bent just enough

that the latch doesn't quite catch.

It hangs wrong. It closes wrong.

It never stays closed.

The wind pushes it open.

The wind pulls it shut.

The crack echoes up the building

like a small violence,

like something breaking repeatedly

that was never quite whole to begin with.

I don't know who lives there.

I don't know if they know the door is broken.

I don't know if they care

that the sound carries,

that it wakes people,

that it's the kind of sound

that makes you remember

you're not alone even when

you're trying to be.

It happens again at 8:02.

The crack. The sharp close.

The reminder that some things

don't seal. Some things

keep opening no matter what you do.

I turn toward the wall.

I try to unhear it.

But now it's there—

the knowledge that somewhere

in this building,

a door won't stay shut,

and nobody seems to know

how to fix it,

or if they do,

they're not bothering.