Upstairs Neighbour

Written By Me.

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There's a man who lives upstairs
wrapped in clouds of smoke and kerosene
who likes to burn me with his eyes
when I ask him for a cup of sugar.

His hair is brown and unkempt
and a beard hugs his jaw.
He wears a bored expression
and leaves his dirty laundry on the floor.

Sometimes, I wonder what he listens to
when he's falling asleep at night.
If the city drifts through his window
on the thick breeze of a summer night.

If I could fall asleep with him,
and watch the walls close in some night
when the bed is hot and the floor is cold,
I might let go of his mystery

and find my own.