"THRESHOLDS" — A CYCLE IN TWELVE PARTS
A notification flickers –
not hers,
but close enough
to cast a thin blade of light
across the room.
Her name appears
in a place she didn’t lock,
a doorway left half‑shadowed,
half‑open,
as if someone stepped through
and forgot to close it fully.
I tap the screen.
Nothing shifts.
No message.
Only the dim glow
of a room where words once lived,
now emptied,
like dust floating
in a beam of light.
Elsewhere, I’m shut out –
a greyed‑out profile
that feels less like a wall
and more like a corridor
where the lights flicker
but never go dark.
Ambivalence hides in these thresholds:
a like she notices,
a silence she keeps,
a window she closes
only halfway.
And I stand in the pause
between her gestures,
reading the static,
the half‑signals,
the candle‑thin meanings
that waver but never settle.
Learning to breathe
in the shimmer
between presence and absence,
between what is shown
and what is withheld.
Because sometimes
the truest part of a story
is not the message sent,
but the space
where words dissolve
like light through
a half‑closed door.
Apr 7
Apr 7, 2026 at 5:43 PM UTC
"THRESHOLDS" — A CYCLE IN TWELVE PARTS
A notification flickers –
not hers,
but close enough
to cast a thin blade of light
across the room.
Her name appears
in a place she didn’t lock,
a doorway left half‑shadowed,
half‑open,
as if someone stepped through
and forgot to close it fully.
I tap the screen.
Nothing shifts.
No message.
Only the dim glow
of a room where words once lived,
now emptied,
like dust floating
in a beam of light.
Elsewhere, I’m shut out –
a greyed‑out profile
that feels less like a wall
and more like a corridor
where the lights flicker
but never go dark.
Ambivalence hides in these thresholds:
a like she notices,
a silence she keeps,
a window she closes
only halfway.
And I stand in the pause
between her gestures,
reading the static,
the half‑signals,
the candle‑thin meanings
that waver but never settle.
Learning to breathe
in the shimmer
between presence and absence,
between what is shown
and what is withheld.
Because sometimes
the truest part of a story
is not the message sent,
but the space
where words dissolve
like light through
a half‑closed door.
A meditation on the half‑light of digital presence — the thresholds where clarity dissolves into gesture, pause, and flicker.
