There it is again,
the apartment is settling in.
I take one earphone out, the music still playing
as my head looks around,
my eyes scanning the room,
my ears straining to pinpoint the source of the creaks.
The apartment readjusts.
It has been sitting still for too long
so now it stretches its sleeping muscles
It’s three in the morning when the pipes in the walls come alive,
their gurgles joining the symphony of the quiet.
No taps are running and yet,
blood courses through the apartment’s veins as it stirs in the dark,
making me acknowledge the unwanted company.
Sometimes footsteps join in the cacophony of the pipes.
They walk around above my apartment after midnight,
followed by screeches of furniture moving around.
Living on the last floor of a building
where the door to the roof is locked and rusty with time,
I try to find sense in the shuffling upstairs.
Maybe I can borrow a broom from the
witch I hear every weekend,
her cackles echoing from another apartment unknown,
travelling through to my window and into my room.
Mind you, I don’t mean a Harry-Potter-witch,
but a green-skinned one with all her pointies—
Maybe I can interrupt her stirring through
the black cauldron of filth,
ask to borrow her broom and
fly up to the roof to find sense in the shuffling upstairs.
Or maybe I will just sit in my weird creaky apartment and
ponder over its haunted-ness.