The doors slide shut and the air changes

The doors slide shut and the air changes.

Metal walls on all sides, buttons lit up,

a small box descending into the basement.

Maybe it stuck. Maybe the floor just felt too far down.

Maybe the stranger beside me stood too close

and I became aware of my own breathing,

aware that the air is limited here,

recycled through the metal and the people.

The descent feels slow and too fast at the same time.

My ears adjust. The buttons glow

like a small constellation of stops,

of places to go, of places to get out.

I'm not afraid. It's not fear.

It's the specific discomfort of being contained,

of having chosen this small space

and now being unable to un-choose it

until the doors open.

The world will be the right size again.

I will step out and walk away

and forget this happened.

But in this moment the walls are close.

My breathing is its own sound.

The descent continues and I'm held here

in the metal and the waiting,

in the pause between where I was

and where I'm going,

and I don't know how long that takes.

I don't know if time works the same way

when you're this far down.