Tiptoed steps make the loudest noise
When the whole house is sleeping
And fingertips are the pots and pans
That were my cymbals and my kick drums
Breath is gusts on the shutters
And notes between the metal of wind chimes
Even my slender arms are weighted
Everything that was once private silence
Is now colored with the sloppy strokes
Of a child’s hand
Everything is boisterous
And yet somehow when my nose
Brushes your ear
It sounds like the beat of a butterfly’s wings
Twisting through the rafters
Of your solemn mind

I will never leave.