An Apology of Sorts

My knock is a question mark.

My smile, a small apology

already forming.

I have learned the language

of temporary things:

the careful perch at the edge of a chair,

the sip of coffee that cools too quickly,

the conversation that stays

in the safe, shallow lanes.

I am a sentence that trails off…

…because the period

felt too final,

and the semicolon

felt like a pebble

settling below a swift current.

I arrive as a whisper,

“Sorry to intrude,”

and depart as a draft,

“Sorry I couldn’t stay.”

A guest in every story,

turning my own role down,

until all that’s left

is the faint, polite echo

of a door clicking shut

behind me.