The Draft

I’m sitting on the floor with my back to the wood,

watching a moth beat its wings against the white paint.

It wants the light on the other side, and if I could,

I’d tell it that the glow is flickering and faint.

A sliver of yellow slices across the boards,

a sharp, bright needle where the frame doesn't meet.

It’s a jagged little entry for the dark’s hoards,

a place where the hallway and the bedroom compete.

You can shut a door until the latch gives a click,

but the house is always breathing through the cracks.

It’s a hollow kind of magic, a carpenter’s trick,

to leave just enough space for the things we lack.