Across The Hall

Two doors, one hallway, a whole world in between. You stole my sweater, I stole it back, we went to war over a hairbrush mic, sang into it anyway at midnight — your harmony was always right. I knew your footsteps on the stairs, your laugh through the wall, clear as a bell — the sound I'd know in any crowd, anywhere, I can always tell. Before friends, before anybody — there was you. Sister — first friend I ever had, first fight, first secret, first to drive me mad. Across the hall, across the years, across it all — whatever I was breaking, you broke my fall. Nobody else read the whole first chapter. Sister — you're the one who knows. You kept the note I never sent, talked me down off every ledge of doubt, showed up with ice cream and no questions the year it all fell out. Nail polish on a Tuesday kitchen floor, smell of it still takes me there — two kids planning whole big lives in matching folding chairs. Before friends, before anybody — there was you. Sister — first friend I ever had, first fight, first secret, first to drive me mad. Across the hall, across the years, across it all — whatever I was breaking, you broke my fall. Nobody else read the whole first chapter. Sister — you're the one who knows. Different cities now, different doors, but call me past midnight — see who picks up. Some hallways you carry with you. Ours never closed. Sister — first friend I ever had, first fight, first secret, first to drive me mad. Across the hall, across the years, across it all — whatever I was breaking, you broke my fall. Nobody else read the whole first chapter. Sister — you're the one who knows. Two doors, one hallway — still my favorite map.