Surrendering bits of myself to you comes with a distinct kind of pride. It’s what I imagine singing an insomniac to sleep or slow dancing with the bed-ridden would be like. And in a way, that is what you did to me. I was a closed door — airtight as tupper ware — but instead of continuing on down the hallway when the lock scratched your key, you stayed in my shadow and devised a plan. Now your voice grants me slumber and your arms melt my paralysis and I’ve never felt safer so high above the ground. Finding stability in the shaky trumps any treasure box discovery.
In the scheme of things I am probably still only ajar, but that is beside the point. The light leaks through the crack, a pleasant surprise for the cynical parts of me who thought they’d never see another day of sun. A strip of dust motes dance and my hinges could be revived any day now. The sour scent of mildew, once as good as home to my nostrils, is smelling more and more like hope. There’s a change on the horizon, in your blueberry eyes, in the uncharted parts of me.