You slide notes under my door. Occasionally I, in darkness run eager fingertips along the slit where lino meets wood, in the quest to find paper. Lately my questing fingers are rarely successful. I leave messages in your fly-screen. Your front door is as warped by age as mine. Only my garden door will accept your words.
More frequent at night, I hear you coming and going. I see lights on the drive, and feel like calling out. Once I screamed to you. You did not hear me, my voice stifled by nerves and the creaky walls of old houses. The walls do let noise through though. I hear your faucet run, and the dull electric hum of your garden lights. Do you hear the splish splashing of my bubble baths? Have you seen movement as blinds shift against window frames, and my eyes peer out into darkness bidding your lights on?
I can hear music from another room.
I wore 5 layers to bed last night, and wished I could come a-knocking and crawl in with you. But the divide from your door to mine grows, as the pot plants on my back porch run wild, and shrivel from neglect.
My mind lingers on words which drifted from lips last time we spoke.
A car pulls into the drive.
I drift from view.