The Boy Downstairs

I'm in love with the boy downstairs
I knock on his ceiling, and he on my floor
The people here cannot read
our morse code
our skin like braille
but only for each other
We are fervently silent 
but only with each other
breathing in rhythm
warriors beating from inside our rib cages
harmonious battles
ephemeral eroticism


With his hand clasped around his wrist
factious ignobles
boors under the aegis of their own blind nature
besiege his opulent altruism
their perspicacity to enervate
what's left of him to cut out
but his pieces become carrion
inside their unfit holes


I ask him
not to rectify their disintegration
I tell him
this isn't his fault
these people left their amorphous hearts
on street corners somewhere between
growing up and giving up
an intersection of mistrust and misunderstanding


I tell him
that we could only continue
cutting out pieces of ourselves
and fitting them into the empty spaces
of each other




(a vocab piece for my creative writing class. Don't be overwhelmed by the atrocious number of big words)