I hear them tip toe down the hall, restraining your excitement for surprises.

Then they are running, yes there’s the fall, that crushes the flower you carry.

Now they are pounding, driving your words; please repeat the tattle you’re telling.

We talk it through, you share and I soothe; you return to your life down the hall.

I know the sounds well, these tales your feet tell; I sit in this room and await them.

The sound I dread more, than footsteps past the door, is the echo that says I’m forgotten.

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