Doors that hang on one hot hinge, and yet they keep from slamming.
Doors that open in more than two directions, and are made of you.
Men say what they say to their wives because they love them.
They say wait, but they’re wrong, they mean now. They mean you’ve waited until now.
Compasses are big because they were made to be read.
I knew just east of you. I knew west of you, too, but didn’t listen.
You were young once. You were open to watching the same movies over
and were the same when I opened my eyes.
Doors that are answers, doors set inside their own sliding.
But what is life if it isn’t someone who’s agreed to your shared escape?
We were young, together, once. We were given what we were worth, finally,
and won’t let go.
Originally published in Slice Magazine, Issue 7. Fall 2010/Winter 2011.