Creaks and Comforts

I hear them moving late at night,

soft steps that keep their secrets tight.

A door clicks shut, a floorboard creaks—

it’s like the walls themselves can speak.

 

I listen in, not really nosy,

but curious about their cozy—

Are they reading, half-asleep?

Or watching shows they never keep?

 

I see them there, remote in hand,

scrolling through shows they never planned,

the glow of screens, a soft distraction,

filling silence, no real action.

 

Perhaps they wander, shoes kicked away,

barefoot through the quiet sway,

each step a whisper, light and slow,

as if they sense I’m just below.

 

A muffled laugh slips through the night,

from something said just out of sight.

I picture friends, their voices low,

sharing secrets only they know.

 

No harsh words, no clash or shout,

just the peaceful hum throughout.

Life moves gently, soft and clear,

like silverware you barely hear—

a chair pulled close, a glass set down,

the quiet comfort all around.

 

There’s comfort in the way they live,

in sounds that late-night hours give.

We never speak, don’t need to talk,

but when I hear their midnight walk,

I like to think we’re in a dance,

both caught in some nocturnal trance.

 

And when they sleep, I wonder how—

Is it quiet, peaceful, like mine is now?

Or do they toss and turn in bed,

chasing thoughts inside their head?

 

One night, a sudden thud breaks through—

a book dropped, or maybe a shoe?

I laugh a little from my side,

imagining their surprise, wide-eyed.

 

Perhaps they’re just like me,

awake at times they shouldn’t be,

wondering what lives beyond their door,

or if the neighbors think and wonder more.

 

And though we’ve never met, not once,

we share this space, this creaky dance.

Their life, a story I’ll never see,

but in the quiet, it comforts me.

 

We both exist, side by side,

through walls too thin to truly hide.

Their footsteps echo through the air,

and somehow, now, I’m more aware.