No One Next Door

I woke up waiting. Just the way I'd gone to bed. With that crater in my hand claiming it could fill me. And a color almost, but not quite orange trying to be his lips. Some half-assed fire trying to persuade me I'm not shivering.

We don't say much. But we still listen. Waiting on the statement in the mail that proves we don't owe anything.

We've paid our debts.

Don't you get records in the mail anymore? Like we used to when sound was still important. When voices would finger paint our expressions onto these mannequins we take to bed.

Don't you listen to the whole song. Not just the lyrics. Not just the melody.

Put them together and tell me what you hear.

Are we still sleeping alone?

The sound pushes, but won't shove. It's always apologizing for things we've done to ourselves.

There's no one next door. At least for the time being.