Some doors were never meant to be counted.
There are old arguments that never seem to grow old.
They merely change clothes.
And somewhere between the garden wall and the bedroom door, someone is always deciding what belongs to the world, and what should have been left alone.
The House With Too Many Keys
They measured the doors at dusk,
then argued over which should close.
Someone kept a ledger of windows,
someone else counted shoes by the stairs.
The old houses knew this ritual.
A bell, a curtain, a lowered voice.
A name written neatly beside another,
as if ink could make a room lawful.
Outside, the gardeners trimmed everything
that climbed where it had not been planted.
Still, certain vines crossed the wall.
Certain lamps burned after midnight.
Certain hands learned the shape of keys
they had never been given.
By morning, the street looked proper again.
But behind one unregistered door,
two cups cooled beside the bed,
while the night, indifferent to all their rules,
belonged only to those inside.
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