apartments.

I hear the sound of my neighbor's alarm turning on at noon. I hear the whistling of an old man. I know he is old because I have seen him drive up in his motorcycle. I have seen the cacti in his window, and I have seen him avoid my neighbors with a very Steppenwolf-esque approach. I have never met him, but i like his personal translation of "old".

I have smiled at the 4, 5, 6 mexican children that live next door, and nodded at the overweight father who seems to work on his truck twice a week. Tuesdays and Sundays.

I have felt goose bumps when I realized a beautiful girl had been listening to me play guitar on my porch for the past...what? 20, 30 seconds? She was on her bike and winked at me, then rode off. I have played two more songs afterwards, louder than before, both internally and vocally hoping she would come back.

I have left the door open because of Spring, and I have smelt the cigarettes of my lower neighbors. I have cooked to make the smell leave the apartment, but secretly I smoke cigarettes whenever I can get a hold of one.

I have been living here for nine months. I have not changed my mind about you.