I pride myself on making no sound

as I come down the stairs.

I imagine myself the first moments

of a kettle boiling,

or flakes of snow falling,

or even a ballerina,

all of me concentrated in one toe,

so small, so narrow,

the wood doesn’t feel a thing.
I am moving down this flight

like a wing arced toward the sun,

a feather fluttering.

I’m the paleness of my skin,

the combined weight of my shadow

and the years after I’m gone.

For all the sincerity of your kitchen radar,

you will not know it’s me.

To you, it’s no one.

To me, it’s how I rise.

Like a thermal. Like a ghost.
The first you’ll know of content

is my kiss upon your cheek.

There’ll be someone there,

compensating for your solitude.

Until then, there’ll be you

wiping tears from eyes

and me, the silent messenger,

with these instructions for your flesh.

Until then, you’ll be alone

with your thoughts.

But then I arrive,

and your thoughts

have something to think about.