The Invisible Crossing
Every door has a line
you cross without thinking
the one between outside
and in.
Most days you don't feel it.
Some days it is everything.
That line holds more than weight:
it holds the will to move,
the choosing to go through
when going through costs something.
Not just the body
that walks on good days
but the one that stops,
breathes,
then walks anyway.
The one that rolls.
The one that takes the long way
because the short way
wasn't built for it.
You carry yourself across.
Not the version
with the right papers,
the right words,
the right way of moving
the real version:
warm,
already enough,
asking no permission
at the line.
The crossing costs nothing
except the willingness
to move.
And on the other side
is the same sky,
a little lighter now,
and you, arrived,
carrying what you carried,
which was always
everything.
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