Scribbles

I'm downstairs by myself.
You're one floor above me and
occupying a separate altitude.
The lamplight throws shadows harder
than the blows that fell off your hard lips
throwing punches with your tongue and
the shadows like my company even
when you do not.
The hours of night walk laps inside
my bones and I pass miles just
by sitting still;
If only it weren't in
the wrong direction.