the box spring is on the floor and the floor is the ceiling to a
happy couple telling each other about their days,
with dirty socks shuffling against their floor.
Which in return acts as the ceiling to a man
who hasn't slept in days.
His floor is littered with half started letters, he can't help
but want to tell her everything on his mind but the drugs
aren't helping him focus. His phone rings, which
is the soundtrack to his neighbours who reside
just below his creaky bed. They don't mind,
they're stoned and rummaging for food in cartons
that expired many hiccuping kitten moons ago.
The building is heaving with isolation as it
houses these people and their feelings, their thoughts
weigh on the drywall. The building is a dirty diary.
People walking in and out of each other's lives.
Making contact, diving and dashing.
A tidal wave of metro living and nothing
to do but bask in the light of the internet
and pray that someone is going to accept
the request and not press the buzzer
unless it's the quick exchange of pizza for cash.
And then back to the mad dash.
Cut the telephone wire, I fear you'll
hear exactly what I'm trying to say.