The boy living on floor three keeps the lights on at night
searching for answers embedded in the spiderweb divots of his ceiling
he’s too afraid to look for in the daylight. The artificial florescent hum
strikes a dissonant chord
casting shadows in the corners he seeks to forget.
The girl living on floor two is a reoccurring nomad—
a familiar stranger among her own pictures hanging on the wall.
The coat slung over the chair looks just like one she wore once.
She doesn’t call this home,
& she doesn’t turn the lights on.
The boy on floor three with his blinds flipped open stares—
nose pressed to chilled glass
wondering if the Ford truck with the headlights out
speeding down the road at 45 miles per hour
is trying to leave or arrive.
The window on floor one is shattered like the relationship of the girl who lives there–
Who claimed to know what love is at thirteen
& learned empty words can sound the prettiest.
But I need him—
the record scratch mantra plays on
oblivious to the frostbite beginning to encase her toes
& the crooked melody of the songbird.