A quiet haunting

How I covet the thought 

of chiming through your walls. 

A tremor, not a pulse,

the flap of wings in a box,

not an encrypted heart.

I would leave nothing of myself 

but a feather's softness against a hand. 

No scriptures made of condensation

to taunt you in mirrors—

just this vibration.

My own breath in a song.

As to say, I came to ask without asking—

do you still remember the sound of my voice?