the door bears all our once-worn-

but-can-be-worn-again clothes

like a cross. the fairy lights

we taped around the room

like a hug seems to be its crown

of thorns.

the doors of our house don't close.

the monsoon has swelled them up.

a swelling is a sign of either hurt

or pride. but the way its handle-nose

sniffs towards our bottled white roses

or the way its broad-brown chest opens

to a sight of the window

makes me believe it's beyond both.

the door is the father of the window.

the window opens to a white wall:

a blank in which we see ourselves

for what we are: either shadows or nothing.

~ ajay

18/9/2024