I listen to them at night, the neighbors making love.
Some nights they fuck. Some nights they screw. Some nights they bang.
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Some nights him. Nestled in a tiny crook of my tiny apartment that is not mine, in my tiny building that is not mine, beside my open window adjacent to their open window, our sounds walled in by the airshaft. It is in the silence that I wait for the silence to end and it is everything. I love you he or she says. I love you he or she replies.
I want to masturbate again only slightly more than I want to kill myself. This is my secret.
I do not know them. I have never known anyone so completely.
I wish they looked at me. They are not attractive. I want them always.
Their sex arouses me like no lover or gem of pornography ever has. I have always trusted witnesses over participants. At the library, I charge my phone and ask the Internet if I am wrong to listen. The Internet says I am. I am a pervert.
Watching you through windows, hearing you through walls
I am voyeur. I am violating the sanctity of their home and the social contract by which all moral homo sapiens agree to live. I ask again, and the Internet says I am not wrong. I am in my home and these are their sounds, their lovemakingfuckingscrewingbanging, that are violating my space.
Sound travels by waves, the Internet explains to me. There are no listening waves. I am a victim. I am harmless. My innocence is a law of physics. I prefer this answer and the next time I see them together I nod. He nods back. Weeks pass.
I discovered yesterday that hearing other people have sex really turns me on
I hear nothing from them. See nothing of them. Key fumbling. Their drunk sex is my favorite. I get naked. Crouch by the window. My sweaty back plastered to the drywall, so horny I am lightheaded, so lightheaded I am free. I wait and I wait and I wait and wait, losing my freedom, and then I hear them. It sounds like a bucket of water poured onto a rusting chainsaw. Her voice is steady long after his goes silent.
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I stay by the window. I get myself off. I am angry and I do it angrily, and I leave myself raw. It feels honest and I hate them. Two days after that, coming home from the library, I see her.
I say hello. She does not look at me. At first, I assume he is sick and then I know he is sick and then I realize he was never sick but simply dying and there is a difference and that difference is hope.
Sex was two three maybe four times a week. Dying is every day, every night. Some nights he wheezes. Some nights she bawls.
Some nights he is in agony. Some nights she prays aloud. Some nights her. One evening I come home to this place that is not a home but it is where I live and hearing die and in between settle and settle for less and less and less, and their apartment door is open and the apartment is empty and everything is gone and I fuck into the bedroom and I stand by the window abutting the airshaft, the window from which I cannot see my window but I hope they heard me, even if they listened separately and never told each other, like I was an inexplicable secret between lovers, like I was a life worth eavesdropping on, and I open the window higher, stick out my head farther and farther, staring into my apartment, empty of life and longing and voice, and then farther still, into this dank cloister, listening for anyone.
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