11 PM

It started at 11 PM—

not the crying, but the hem

of silence before it breaks.

The kind of sound that wakes

something in you. Instinct.

Knowledge that you're linked

to this stranger's breaking

without ever partaking.

The light from her apartment

leaked under my wall. An ament

of yellow. Proof she was there,

on the other side. Somewhere

breaking. Just breaking.

I was washing dishes.

I stopped. Like my wishes

could somehow matter.

Like I could stop the chatter

of sound through thin walls.

Like I could answer her calls

with silence. With noise.

With anything but the void

of my listening.

There's something obscene

about knowing. Being seen

into. Having access to

someone's breaking. What to do?

Just stand. Just listen.

Just let the moment glisten

with the knowledge that I know

what she doesn't want me to know.

That's the violation.

That's the small separation

between us. Just drywall.

Just air. Just the call

of her breaking

into my kitchen. Shaking

me. Making me hold still.