The Midnight Hinge

The door creaks close behind me,
I can feel the wood drawing near

Space to step back shrinks for every hesitant step
that toes its way forward

The doorway is different this time
I can smell it
Air as unfamiliar as the choices being made

Were a mirror before me only inches past the precipice,
a stranger would stare back,
unrecognizable

They are wrong
They are always wrong
This is no two-pronged wooded fork in a golden wood

This is a solstice choice
A decision birthed as the sun disappeared
and darkness descended with crooked, insisted incisors in its smile

A faith-bound step,
taken when the road was already rough
Made at the hinges of midnight
with only whispers lighting the way to that God-forsaken door

The door closes
and every instinct screams to return to light
and arms
and familiarity
and love,
holding all the teeth at bay

Before, I always turned back

The stranger in front of me,
the one on the other side,
is waiting now

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