There’s a sound behind the plaster, low and wet and slow,
Like something dragged its knuckles from the crawlspace down below,
I pressed my ear against it in the hallway, two A.M.,
And something pressed right back from the other side again.
The inspector said it’s nothing, just the pipes contracting tight,
But pipes don’t breathe and pipes don’t scratch and pipes don’t hum at night,
I plastered over three holes that appeared without a cause,
By morning all three openings were back — and bigger — with no pause.
It’s in the wall, it’s learning where I sleep,
It maps my movements through the house by sound and heat,
I can’t tear it open, can’t afford to know what’s there,
Something in the structure of this house is breathing my same air.
My landlord stopped returning calls in early fall,
I found his business card untouched still pinned against the hall,
The neighbor downstairs moved out fast, left furniture behind,
I hear her rocking chair still moving, keeping perfect time.
There’s a shape behind the wallpaper where the pattern doesn’t meet,
It pulls away in strips at night and peels back in the heat,
I photographed the outline and deleted every frame,
Because whatever’s pressed against the drywall has my face, the same.
The building super told me that the previous man here
Complained about the scratching for the better part of a year,
Then one night he went quiet, which the neighbors thought was fine,
They found him in the wall six months later — same as mine.
Same as mine, same as mine, same hollow stare,
Same apartment number chalked on skin like he still lived there,
I’ve been measuring my arms against the outline on the plaster,
And the fit gets more precise with each morning I get past here.
So I sleep in the kitchen now with every light blazing on,
And I count the scratches in the plaster until the early dawn,
Whatever’s on the other side has patience like a saint,
And I’m starting to believe that it’s more real than I am — it ain’t gonna wait