We slip into the elevator just before the doors snap shut,
two metal lips arguing about whether to kiss or bite.
The floor vibrates—
a mechanical giggle—
as if the whole contraption is amused
that we trust it with our weight.
Something above us drops,
something below us rises,
and the cables hum like a violin bow
dragged across a bicycle wheel.
Reflections of us flicker in the brushed steel,
splitting, rejoining,
misaligned like frames from a film
spliced by a drunk archivist.
We are the flicker that refuses a single flame,
seen from the side,
from the other side,
from the side that isn’t a side at all.
The elevator jerks upward—
too fast,
too sideways—
and gravity forgets its manners.
We grab at ourselves,
at each other,
at versions that slide like wet paint.
Whispers coil around our ankles,
not asking, not warning—
just tugging at the seams
where our intentions come apart.
Our hands break into different hungers,
one reaching for the next floor’s promise,
the other clutching a shape
that might be a handle
or might be a joke.
We are the flicker that refuses a single flame,
seen from the side,
from the other side,
from the side that isn’t a side at all.
We glimpse ourselves in the mirrored doors—
one leaning into the rising dark,
breathing out a current never granted,
the other blessing deeds
no witness could survive.
The elevator shudders,
a spine cracking,
a throat swallowing.
We rise.
The walls rise with us.
The air begins to chant in our ears.
Rise with us—
rise through us—
rise past us—
rise beyond us—
rise.
Rise with us—
rise through us—
rise past us—
rise beyond us—
rise.
We are the flicker that refuses a single flame,
seen from the side,
from the other side,
from the side that isn’t a side at all.
The elevator convulses like a readymade possessed,
cables shrieking, lights stuttering,
the whole shaft twisting into a single command:
up.
Our breath fractures into shouts we don’t remember starting.
Our limbs jerk in rhythms older than our bones,
as if something ancient and laughing
has seized the controls.
The mirrored walls erupt with faces we almost recognize,
laughing, screaming, singing—
all of them ours,
none of them aligned,
each one a misprint of the last.
They surge with us,
through us,
as the elevator rockets upward
and the roar below becomes a mouth
big enough to swallow the world.
The chant rises inside our blood—
not words now,
just the ecstatic stutter
of something breaking free
from the idea of meaning.
A panel flares open—
a brief wound of light—
demanding our name before it closes.
We strike it hard,
ink fleeing,
surface erasing,
but the pressure sinking deep,
driving us upward as the elevator shudders behind us
in a sound like a god remembering
that even hunger
can be absurd.
