Ode To A Doorknob

She knows the shape by heart. If she could draw, she’d be able to sketch every contour, every shadow made by the changing hour of the clock, with her eyes closed. She’s spent the better part of this particular week, like so many past, imagining the unimaginable ... its unfortunate offering.

So she sits, and gazes at it from time to time, as the darkness locks down. Trying not to look only makes her look more often, something akin to asking a small child to be quiet in church. The need will come later, for now, it’s more like flirting or foreplay.

As the hours disappear, her gaze becomes a full, hard stare, daring not to blink, not to miss a telltale sign. The legitimacy of it all comes from inside of her and needs no validation. She knows what she knows.

Ocassionally, she moves closer ... almost placing her hand there, but retracting it each time as if the skin would burn away should she actually … touch. Maybe she sidles up close by, leaning in, her ear fixed, waiting for something that she hopes she does not hear. More likely, she will just back away, the hair standing up on the nape of her neck.

And so, with knees pulled up, she waits. She waits for the light to unbuckle the shackles and only then does she move, exhausted and stiff. He comes back tonight and the fear will assuage. Then she will sleep.