Fourteen Every Time

Fourteen. I know before the last step lands.

The number comes without my asking,

arrives before I do, before my hands

have touched the rail, before I'm passing

through the thought. No first morning.

No decision. It was there —

a habit with no start, no warning,

just: already in the air

of me. The stairwell. The bracket

where the light flickers, always has.

Right foot last. The number, exact,

settled before the step. It was

just waiting at the top.

Fourteen. I stand there sometimes.

Think about thirteen.

Whether I'd trust it.

Whether I'd go back down and start again.