What Got In

The smell came under my door

before I knew what it was.

Thick. Animal. Alive.

My neighbor's dog had come through the hallway

soaking wet, shaking, spraying water everywhere

like it was trying to wash away

something that wouldn't wash.

The smell followed it.

Followed me.

Invaded every room.

I opened a window.

The smell came in stronger.

Like it was waiting for an invitation.

This is the smell of something

that doesn't belong to me.

Something that's taken over my space

without asking.

I can't wash it out.

I can't air it out.

It just sits in the fabric of everything.

In my sheets.

In my clothes.

In the back of my throat.

The dog is probably dry now.

Probably warm.

Probably doesn't care that it left

a piece of itself behind.

But I'm still here.

Still smelling it.

Still feeling invaded.

This is what it means to live close to other people.

This is what it means to have walls

that aren't actually walls.

Your neighbor's wet dog

becomes your wet dog.

Your neighbor's life

becomes your life.

And you can't do anything about it

except open the windows

and breathe in deeper.