Next Door

Their plant was small, something that didn't need much.

It sat outside their door for months

until one morning it wasn't there.

We lived fifteen feet apart.

Two years. A nod in the stairwell.

Once, we held the door for each other

and I saw their shoes were the same as mine,

the same worn spot on the heel.

Now the suitcase is there.

The empty space where the plant was

is just drywall.

I'll never know their name.

I'll never know if they noticed

I noticed them.