The Knock After Midnight

The Knock After Midnight

It begins when the house forgets sound,

when even breathing feels too loud,

and the dark settles properly in,

like it has always belonged there.

The first knock is soft and unsure,

almost polite, almost human,

but there is something missing in it,

like intention without life.

I do not answer, I never do,

but silence seems to encourage it,

as if refusal is just another form

of invitation.

The second knock is heavier, closer,

as if the door has moved itself,

and I begin to feel the air shift,

like it is leaning toward me.

The third knock is never just a sound,

it feels like it enters the room,

not through wood, not through space,

but through the part of me that listens.

After that, there is no counting,

only the sense of being observed,

as if the door is no longer a door,

but something deciding.

I stand still, I do not move,

but still I feel it understanding me,

learning the shape of my hesitation,

and what it can do with it.

By morning it is always gone,

but the door feels different afterward,

like it has learned how to wait better,

for the next time I am alone.

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