The Sullied Apartmenthouse

All along you wished it, internally, out loud, 
To roam the corridors—a battalion of ten or thirteen
Battered floors, identically composed, an outlier amongst
Eternal repetition—unencumbered, free. 
To pronounce the noises, undulate erratic, no order in your
Gait, a smile released without a premonition of that
Chocolate submission. Reiterate the unknown
Silence and only you can know the footsteps
That were once your own. 

The neighbour knocks upon a door. Another tread, 
Ambitious reckoning and semblance of congratulations, 
Unimpeded susurrations broadcast through a
Mask of champagne flutes. Hullabaloo confirmed in
Ceremonious postage stamps, and he has gone abroad, 
No more the phantasm of memory, and a breath no longer
Yours. Sensuous exhalation, dawdling in hallways and
Toes beating upon sheets of baby blue, these chords his
Second nature. He would have called up an entire fuss. 
You emerge upon the balcony, breathe in the air of
Liberation. A convincing masquerade. 

The elevator chirps arrival and there is no more
Dodging corners. Through the walls a voice off pitch in
Kurdish breathes its last. This is a spoiled melody, and
They have convinced you well of happiness.
The label taken down the day of his departure, neighbour
Knocks upon a door whose knock is risk no longer. 
You carry on in verisimilitude. 
A wish is not that which may be spoken to a crowd, 
But whispered in an internal vessel. But you did not
Wish it internally. You only know that he shall return.
But this is his escape.