Corridor with Open Doors
A hallway lit from uneven angles,
doors breathing in and out of view,
each one carrying its own climate.
Footsteps ahead,
quick, then gone,
as if someone had stepped into a brighter room
and let the rest of the day
decide the pace.
Walls marked by old fixtures,
a faint shimmer where
a poster once hung,
the kind of detail you notice
only when the afternoon sharpens.
Voices drift from a stairwell,
neither calling nor waiting,
just passing through the building
the way light passes
through a narrow pane
before widening across the floor.
You pause near the last doorway,
air warmer here,
as though the next turn
might open into something unplanned—
a street, a station,
a place where the day starts again,
asking nothing of anything, ever at all.
.