Between Shut and Open

There’s a slit of light—

sharp as a blade—

between the door and its frame,

a thin breath of afternoon dust.

I lean close and watch motes float,

silent witnesses hanging still,

tiny specks caught between

what closes out and what leaks in.

The door never quite closes,

a small gap holding secrets,

like things you don’t say

but leave half-said in the edges.