#liminality
There was a doorway I kept walking past,
pretending it was still open.
Your absence stood there as the outline
of something that used to breathe,
a moment that refuses to sit down.
Even now, something in the doorway listens,
waiting for the words I never spoke.
I wasn’t ready for you to disappear.
A sound that remembers me better than I remember it
follows me through every room.
I keep returning to the moment you vanished,
as if repetition could soften the blow,
as if memory might open a door
already sealed behind you,
quiet as a held breath.
What lingers isn’t you anymore,
but the version of me
still standing in that doorway,
listening for a voice
that dissolved before it reached the threshold.
I’ve learned to live with the echo,
to let it move through me
like weather I can’t predict,
a reminder that some doors close
before we know we were still standing in them.
Jan 11
Jan 11, 2026 at 12:18 PM UTC
i've been at rest since yesterday,
tending to my detriment.
rest assured, i'm festering
in liminal imprisonment;
discontent and reticent
yet again.
Aug 26, 2024
Aug 26, 2024 at 1:01 PM UTC
earth
once inhabited
for containment
bottled up cider
— soon too sour
that we do is beautiful
but fleeting – living
a vile act of pure free will
blissful less peaceful
the corpses we make
Jul 27, 2020
Jul 27, 2020 at 6:10 PM UTC
you’re staring at a wrench display
in a failing sears 10 minutes before closing
and don’t recognize the reflection in the stainless steel.
you’ve been here a million times,
run your fingers along band saws a million times,
memorized the store’s playlist, learned “Love Hurts" by Nazareth
but you’re still trying to find something that connects,
something to retrace the steps to what pushed you out the door,
placed cold hands in empty pockets, made you stop
to buy cigarettes and brought you here again.
your blood pumps slower in places of transition,
only walked through to get to the mall
or back through to poorly parked cars
and you know a lot about
being used to move on
but left behind.
an employee asks if you’re alright
and you say yes
because you know they’re running out their shift
and don’t want to deal with your ****
and how could you tell them
that today, your skin feels foreign.
maybe you’ll find something in
winter coats and blackout curtains
but until then you make a home
on a display mattress
because you only live in liminal spaces.
you’re only grounded
between phases, in inbetweens.
you rely on uncertainty and in this economy,
the sears might be gone before you realize you’ll miss it.
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 4:08 AM UTC
there is a certain liminality to airplanes
even the ones now fixed to the ground,
all museum tours and rot held at bay,
for a while.
yearning for the strain of metal,
a voice calling out safety procedures
(don't tamper with or disable the smoke detector in the lavatory),
and someone who loves them to come back to brush
knowing hands, since gone to claws, over their instrument panels.
in the air there doesn't seem to be a good reason
for planes not to tilt,
tilt down inexorably,
till they kiss the earth again.
all crumpled aluminum and fire
and a small black box
to tell those we left on land
some of how it happened.
I can tell myself about physics and engineering,
about this being my second flight today,
and about how (if nothing else) I made it onto this plane.
the turbulence pays me no mind.
touching down, touching ground, it hesitates.
there's a ghost of movement still.
a waiting. a breath.
the rush of air and engines,
not gone so much as paused,
halted only for a moment.
I am a little afraid of flying
but I'm more afraid of moving on
moving past this moment,
all muscled grace and limbo,
a portion of earth held up in sky.
then we land and walk to baggage claim
while behind us the airplane-
the airplane holds.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 2:36 AM UTC