The weight I think I am

I move through rooms like borrowed air,

Careful not to breathe too loud.

Every laugh I give away

Feels like something not allowed.

I count the ways I take up space

A chair pulled back, a voice too long,

The quiet pause when I arrive

Like I have interrupted a song.

I watch the way the daylight falls

Across the faces that I love,

And wonder if their tired eyes

Are tired because I’m standing there.

I try to shrink into the seams

Between the moments of their day,

Folding corners of myself

So less of me remains in the way.

If I could learn the art of dust

To settle softly, not be seen,

To live without the need for room,

To leave their bright and easy scene.

But sometimes, in the quiet dark,

A gentler thought begins to stir:

What if the weight I think I am

Is only carried by myself