Learning Someone by Sound

Footsteps.

Then silence.

Then footsteps again.

Your pattern.

Your rhythm.

Your anxiety

walking back and forth

across the ceiling

above my head.

I've learned you

by listening.

The agitated pace—

quick, hard, deliberate.

The calm pace—

slower, measured.

The pause—

where you stand still

and I imagine

you breathing.

I know when you're

okay.

I know when you're

not.

I don't know your name.

I don't know your face.

I know the geography

of your worry.

The footsteps start again.

Quick.

You're thinking

about something.

I want to tell you

it's okay.

I want to tell you

I know.

But all I have

is this ceiling

and the sound

of you

trying to walk

through

whatever

it is.

So I sit here.

Listening.

Tracking.

Knowing you

in the only way

I'm allowed.

The footsteps slow.

You're calming down.

I'm not.