What Shows Through

The waiting room door

has a gap at the bottom.

Light comes through.

I can see the shadow

of someone pacing

on the other side,

the silhouette

of their shoes,

the repetition

of their steps.

They're waiting too.

I'm waiting here.

They're waiting there.

The door between us

is not locked,

not quite closed,

just a thin wall

that keeps us from

seeing each other's faces,

but not

from knowing

that we're both

waiting.

The shoes cross the light

again and again.

Left to right.

Right to left.

The pacing of someone

who doesn't know

they're being watched,

who doesn't know

there's a gap,

that their waiting

is visible,

that their privacy

was never

private.

I keep looking at the gap,

at the light,

at the silhouette.

We're not alone

in here.

We're not together

either.

We're just two people

in different rooms,

separated by a door

that isn't closed enough,

watching each other's

invisible footsteps,

both waiting

for the same person

to call our names.