How deep is the water?

Sometimes, when it's late, the trains go by. I hear every part of the house move in response, the deep lurching of the skeleton. The outside of the walls sound like they're crumbling, peeling away, into nothing. The rectangular shape of the bed, the joining walls, and the foundation seem to shift, closing in to touch my feet, to come alive.

And I, with wide but somewhat tired eyes, in my warm pocket under the blankets, look out and see so much, but not much. I can only see what the window will let me see.. The room is my own, and I recognize most of it. Everything shifts back as the power fades. Nothing moves when the train goes along. The rumble dies off in the distance, taking the magic it brought with it.

And then I wonder where you are and who you're with, hoping you're still alone, like I am, like you've always been. I know that's who you are.

Sometimes I know that we'll live our lives separately and that I'll never see or hear from you again, and then I want to bring you closer to me, and I don't mean to strangle you. I feel like I may never feel differently than this; always longing.

Then I think.. that you will find me, and you will save me from all of this, from all of this emptiness and evil around me.

But then again, I don't know. Sometimes.. I don't know you. And it's hard to admit.

I wish the trains didn't have to leave.