Layers of White Latex

The light is on inside the second floor,

a square of yellow through the winter rain.

I’m standing on the porch beside the door,

feeling the old and familiar kind of strain.

I reach out for the button in the frame,

but it’s been painted over four times fast.

It has no click, no sound, no living name,

just a hard, white lump that’s built to last.

I could knock until my knuckles start to bleed,

or shout your name into the empty street.

But the paint has filled the only gap we need,

and made the silence heavy and complete.

I turn around and walk back to the gate,

leaving the bell to its quiet, plastic fate.