You Didn’t Just Knock On The Door

I felt it beneath my ribs
the kind of anticipation
a quiet room listens to.

I opened the door, and you walked in
like you belonged there.
The room already acquainted
with your skin
a hallway of comfort,
like lips before a kiss.

Somewhere between
the hum of the fan
and the hush of breath
without urgency,
without the prerequisite
of apology.

The walls leaned closer.
The corners curved in.
The ceiling dropped a little lower.
The knock on my ribs
louder.

You walk in,
and every closed door opens
like it missed you.

Filling the frame.
The reason not to blink.
The reason not to breathe.

You just became welcome.

The silence
our best friends
we tell everything
we can’t tell ourselves.

If you can’t hear the knock
on my ribs
they can.