The Ceiling Speaks, Or, Low-Frequency Hum

The low hum started,

a drone, a dull bruise behind my eyes.

It vibrates through the floorboards,

not a melody, not even a beat,

just a steady thrumming,

like some colossal beast

breathing slowly

through the ceiling.

Five hours.

My head, a tight drum.

I saw a crack appear last week,

just a thin, spiderweb line,

above the lamp,

and now I watch it,

wondering if it's growing,

if their bass, or whatever it is,

is pulling the plaster apart.

I picked up the yellow pad,

the cheap kind,

and wrote: 'Persistent noise.'

'Disruption of peace.'

My pen pressing too hard,

leaving dents in the next page.

What do you even say?

'Your life, it bothers mine.'

It feels so small,

and yet,

it's everything.

The thrum just keeps

going.