“Let me in,”
a voice whispers,
a soft whisper,
a slow whisper.
I look at the door,
anxious and awake:
Who may it be
to come so late?
The sound vanishes,
like it never was,
the feeling of dread
creeps into me.
I tiptoe to the door,
a nervous shiver:
Who may it be
to come so late?
My warm hand
on the cold latch,
like fear grips
my weak heart.
The door's ajar,
my eyes wide,
my mouth open,
my fists tight.
- Eisha
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