It knocks without knocking,
slipping under the door—
a whisper that grows teeth,
settling at the table
where no chair was left for it.
It pours itself a drink,
stirs shadows into the glass,
clinks ice like a warning
that tonight will not be quiet,
that silence cannot be trusted.
It fingers the curtains,
draws them shut too tight,
murmurs of storms outside
when the skies are still,
when the weather is fine.
It asks no questions,
but answers them all—
What if? What if? What if?
each word a match
striking against the air.
And when at last it leaves,
no door opens, no footstep fades.
The room still smells of it,
the air still aches with it,
the seat still warm where it sat.
Therapy Bits 
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