You did not look like the knocking type,
but I found you standing at my door
just as I was about to shut it, knobby knuckles
ready to softly announce his arrival.
You never made much noise.

Your footsteps were whispers
on the creaking living room floor.
I never let you upstairs.
You might have stood at the
staircase a few times, but I wouldn't
remember. You never looked long enough
for me to see you.

Just like how you did not
so much as glance at the curtains
your fingers found their way to,
carefully caressing every inch of cloth
as if you had sewn them yourself.

How noiselessly your body
nestled against the hollow walls.
I can only be grateful that they
did not collapse beneath its weight,
or leave an imprint of your chest
on its peeling paint.