Climbing

It's a swinging door. Every moment. Passing into and out of. The breeze from its constant movement your only indication that it ever was. In or out. There or gone.

No proof. Only The things around them they've altered. The shape of the light as it cascades down barren walls. The tick of the keys are you tap out another silent song.

No proof. Because there's no such thing.

Just evidence. For the trials.

Arguments. Convictions. Acquittals. Speculation. Eyewitnesses. But no proof.

Of anything.

I sat there in my pajamas and I challenged the silence to prove me wrong. Thinking so loud that I knew it could hear every thought. It just kept repeating everything I had not, but always meant to say.

I dropped the needle into the groove, but it wasn't weighted properly and skated over the entire scene. Actors frozen upon their stage. Dialogue halted.

The kind of pause that. That carefully enunciates every breath.

As if we were waiting.

For something to be said.

But the words would not oblidge us.

The doors were always open. Free to pass through from either side. There was always an entrance. Or an exit. Depending on what you wanted.

We only lacked the stairs.