Flatmates

I am silent.
Silent as -
not the grave -
some other place,
where you cannot hear
the worms turning
around bones.

I used to like your fringed
black eyes - infant fingers -
slipper feet -
to think you were so new
to this land, new
to being in the world
with only you.

But the six-o'clock slam
and slap of jandals
as you claim the bathroom first,
sitting by the log fire in your jacket
with the heater blasting,
and the roaring of ear pressed to door
as you listen listen listen,
fill your ears with us,

have made me silent.
All my sound sucked in
to the hollows of my lemon cheeks.