I'm Not Alone This Evening, Nor Was I Ever. Poem by Mark Heathcote

Footsteps are echoing.
Laid buried in my inner ear
a pulsating forest, a din of mosquitoes,
a conch shell the sound of crashing
waves singing in loud decibels
it could be tinnitus or cicadas en masse on the ground
or on-route computer binary code
laughter laughing at night, but I hear a heart pulse
throbbing with blood racing.
It could be my own, but then again,
I hear footsteps leaving, shuffling,
a murmuring child crying. A mother weeping.
A window closing - 'Something tells me'
I'm not alone this evening, nor was I ever.