footsteps;
children playing outside;
a convoy of people parading through the avenue;
the hum of the refrigerator;
our next door neighbor, singing:
estoy tan solo y tan cansado
de llorar
over and over in wishful prayer.
you hear the clicking of my keyboard and think:
what's she typing about? does she talk about me?
why are her novels so long? why doesn't she finish them?
and I hear–
the roaring of motorcycles;
children playing outside;
my next door neighbor, suddenly falling silent;
the elevator bouncing up and down;
your deep breathing;
so I take a peek towards our bedroom and I see you
huddled up in blankets, taking a nap in the cloudy afternoon glow
and I think:
do you think I write about you? do you want to read what I write?
how would you feel if you knew it was always for you and about you?
in this silence
I find the blessing
of keeping secrets.