After the Door

I'm still in the hallway.

My hand was on the knob from the outside,

turning it the way you do

before you let go.

I hear it before I see it:

the bolt sliding home.

Then the chain, that second lock,

the one that means I can't turn around

and walk back in.

It's just a sound. People close doors

all day. But I'm thinking about

what was on the other side of it—

the kitchen light, her jacket on the chair,

the way she was already turning

to clear the table before I'd even left.

I stood in the hallway for a minute.

Maybe two. I don't know.

Listening to her move around in there,

the apartment closing itself.

The chain is still moving in the gap,

catching light, settling.

That's what I see when I close my eyes—

not her, not the room,

but that small silver thing

swinging back to rest.