I stand with my palm against the closing door,
its wood still warm with a former becoming.
I know the hinge has reached its final petition,
yet my body resists the sound of goodbye.

Behind me, the room exhales, familiar  —
shadows arranged exactly as I learned to need.
It is not wrongness that loosens my grip,
but the quiet truth that my soul has outgrown it.

Ahead lies a corridor without architecture,
no lanterns, no signs, no promise of arrival.
I hesitate because I have not yet seen the next door,
only felt its absence press against my ribs.

To close this one is to stand briefly nowhere,
neither held nor claimed nor mirrored back.
I fear the season of walking unaccompanied,
the long echo of my own footsteps alone.

Still, a deeper knowing moves through my chest:
doors do not open into crowded hands.
The threshold requires emptiness as tribute,
a clearing wide enough for truth to enter.

So I release the handle, slow as a vow,
and let the latch answer with its final click.
In the dark, something unseen begins aligning —
a new door learning the sound of my name.