Concrete confession

The fluorescent lights hummed a bad tune

against the bare concrete walls, grey and cold.

My shoes scuffed a rhythm, too soon

alone up three flights, a story told

only in that particular reverb,

that low thrum. Then, from somewhere above,

a faint sound, a breathy, half-giggle, a verb

of secret, hushed agreement, or of love.

Not words, never words.

Just the sound of two bodies,

leaning close, conspiring like birds

behind a closed door, the small eddies

of whispered air, a shared knowing,

the heat of a hand on a forearm, a quick squeeze,

and the shadows on the wall growing

long, then gone, a temporary ease.