The
hallway held a steady hum.
My step broke through,
but no one come.
A squeak, then one more echoed wide,
but I stayed fixed or turned aside.
Shoes squeaked twice,
this sound was mine,
but nothing bent or broke the line.
No startled glance, no shift, no laugh,
just space to still to echo that.
The tile was clean,
too clean to slip,
yet somehow caught my loosened grip.
I tried to slow to step with care,
but silence danced around the air.
Shoes squeaked twice,
this sound was mine,
but nothing bent or broke the line.
No startled glance,
no shift, no laugh,
just space to still to echo back.
Some sounds are meant to say I'm here,
to pull attention,
spark the ear,
but when they fall on steady wall,
it's like they never
moved at all.
I crossed the hall with softer feet,
avoided tiles where noise repeats.
Still no one turned,
still no one knew the space that sound was passing through.
Shoes squeaked twice,
the sound was mine,
but nothing bent or broke the line.
No startled glance, no shift, no laugh,
just space to still to echo back.
Some footsteps mark a trail in vain,
too faint for others to retain.