Kamaskera, Kamaskera The Cut That Opens Twice

I found it in the floorboard grain —
A line that was not there before.
The blade had gone clean through the plank
And opened something underneath the floor.

One side was mine, the other — wrong.
The walls were turned, the windows sealed.
I pressed my eye against the seam
And saw a room that would not yield.

The blade still hums between the boards,
Half in this house, half in the next —

The cut that opened twice
Won't close from either side.
I see you through the fracture line —
Your hand against the light.
The saw is lodged between the phases,
Singing where it fell.
One edge in my world,
One edge somewhere else.

The gap is wider in the evening,
Narrower at dawn.
I've charted it — the seam expands
Each time I try to pull the blade along.

It will not come. It will not break.
It vibrates like a tuning fork.
The mirror-world sends back the sound
But not the pitch — a semitone off.

I thought a cut could be undone —
A board replaced, a nail, a patch.
But this cut lives in both the floors
And neither house consents to match.

The cut that opened twice
Won't close from either side.
I see you through the fracture line —
Your hand against the light.
The saw is lodged between the phases,
Singing where it fell.
One edge in my world,
One edge somewhere else.