Leaves

Even before the sun reaches the foot of the building,
I can hear them outside my window,
Walking, leaves crunching underfoot.

They’ll walk to my neighbour’s window
With loud steps but silent speech and come back.

At times I hear them move closer to the window as though peeking in.
Are they contemplating or waiting?

As I feel the pressure of fingertips on glass,
I will continue to lay in bed unmoving,
Clutching useless sheets while the alarm wakes and blares.

No matter how long it’s been,
I still stare at the heavy curtains with fear,
Hoping it’ll not open.

A sliver of day breaks through,
And the footsteps begin to quieten,
The kettle whistle from next door will loosen the jittery heart,
And the steps will die.

In this sputtering mechanical labyrinth of stone and metal,
I will fear the noise of leaves because I live on the tenth floor in a balcony-less matchbox.

Who the fuck is walking outside my window?

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