The Boy Who Lives Next Door
everything I've ever written
these pieces of torn paper in my hand
all this has only ever been
an ode to my silence
not for the boy who lives next door
who smiles at me sometimes in the corridor
who comes over in the middle of the day
to ask for a spoonful of sugar or honey
who sometimes plays his guitar louder
when he knows I'm awake next door
who peers from his balcony
to check if the lights went off here too
and then grinning sheepishly
comes home to offer me a candle
who stops the lift for me
and then pretends like he didn't
but slowly smiles to himself
and I smile too
and in our silent acknowledgement
of each other's smiles
that
my poems are an ode to that silence
not to the boy who lives next door
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