Golden numbers sit perched above the peephole.

Not real gold but

Cheap, metallic spray paint that is violently chipping on the edges.

One-zero-nine.

The key takes a little jiggling to get it to fit into the supposedly mirrored cavern.

A young brunette from room 108 is the one that taught me the trick.

She always has loud, banging music blaring through our shared, muted wall. 

I can’t find it in myself to be angry; I’ll let her keep the comfort.

And while the top half of her hair stays brunette,

The underlayer never is the same color the next time our paths cross.

I like to think it’s magical,

Like it reflects her inward appearance to the outside.

The dull, lifeless, generic photo hanging above my bed frame makes me queasy. 

The lifeless woods are just an image I’m resentful of.

I’ll never reach that level of calm;

I haven’t decided if I want to.

Whoever is sleeping in the room up above walks with their heels.

When my head is resting below the dreaded woods, their footsteps seem to take up more sound waves than normal.

I often try to envision what adventure they’ve pursued.

I like to imagine it’s a romantic venture.

They’re probably wrapped in the arms of a loved one,

Songs with the word “love” in their title are filling the room, and

They keep stepping on each other’s feet, but they laugh it off with a smile.

There are no lovey-dovey love songs coming from my dirty-dish filled kitchen.

I wish there were.

Each inhale seems to be weighed down by the musty smell plastered in the walls.

Every exhale isn’t much better.

They don’t expel anything from my thought-plagued mind,

They seem to only cement their place.

They seem to be as permanent as the aggravating picture above the bed. 

I wish my head was as vacant as the rooms in this building,

But some things are just too big of a wish for the universe to handle,

And room one-zero-nine will forever have chipped gold letters above their peephole.