I have grown skilled at moving without sound. When I get up from the bed and leave you behind, I rise like a ghost, curling silently, pulling myself into space and rolling and dropping to the floor without taking a breath, rustling the sheets, creaking the wooden bed-frame, thudding on the floor, letting my joints snap, or crying out loud.
I look back as I walk away, to watch your rosy mouth, your closed forget-me-not eyes. I watch your chest rise and fall. Such a small movement, one breath after the other. Just mouthfuls of air holding up the sky.