The Girl Upstairs Poem by Charles Malcolm

We've only spoken in passing.
Neighbors in the weakest sense
of the word,
but we know that we understand
each other.
You hear my music and I hear yours.
We've haunted this house
with screams and cries
separated only
by awkwardness, joists, insulation,
and roommates that didn't want to hear
any of it.

We're both on our way out
it seems,
but we'll meet again.
When we do
we can finally talk
about what we heard.