Always at the Door

 

Soffocating in doubt,

you sit on the thinnest line,

the edge of ‘when’, and

the moment is a spun-sugar unicorn in the hammer factory.

 

And you wait at the door.

Always at the door.

Standing on the outside wishing for the inside,

paralyzed and hypnotized,

self-assured as long as your back is feeling wild winds.

 

She is there,

over and over again.

But you doubt it.

You are the pattern, not she.

The door opens inwardly.