Already so familiar with its location,
you walk me to the door.
Though lacking ornamentation,
the wood is rich, the handle
smoothly curved. Seeing but one
convincing option, I slip through
into a world that seems unchanged
until I open my eyes.

A darker, warmer, harder, brighter,
deeper, more broken self.
Astonished to find you’re not
beside me, I turn back to see you,
eyes closed, rambling ceaselessly
of the wonders that you’ve glimpsed.

What precious, cumbersome cargo
keeps you from crossing over,
seemingly satisfied to circle the
doormat on the very threshold of life?


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