I'm inside. 

And the doors are locked. 

The windows sealed and the lights turned off. 

No one's home. 

It's silent, thick and tangible. 

Only broken by the faucets running loud and free. 

I'm in a chair. 

Centred in the house. 

Water rises to my ankles now. 

But I can't help but wonder if

I turned the faucet off or not. 

All is still. 

In my home where I 

Can't seem to stop tapping my feet

Sloshing water up and down. 

Making it so it never sits. 

There's something else. 

In this house with me. 

Somewhere in the darkness

She swims around me circling 

The water that won't settle in. 

The darkness is self evident 

As though to aid the woman that 

Whispers words of sympathy 

While closing in proximity. 

She's as real as my meandering 

As tangible as tinkering. 

The water is up to my hips

I don't feel the cold it spreads

Only pressure on my skin

And the dampness that it coerces. 

It's darker still. 

But louder now.

Her words begin to fill the room

Cramming themselves down my throat 

As she wraps around my tightened chest. 

I'll die in here. 

I think to myself. 

Knowing full well of the keys I clutch 

And the way I sit unbound and free 

Yet cannot seem to push myself

To stand and saunter out of here. 

It's my home

Why don't you see. 

I'm safe inside, in the roaming dark. 

Where nothing can come wandering. 

The water's at my chin now

And I can't seem to lift my head 

And take that lasting living gasp

Before breathing escapes from me. 

She's all around the water now

Infused in every drop that spills. 

And even now I keep thinking 

Did I turn that faucet off?

Syeda Erum Noor is devoted to learning about the craft of writing and is an avid reader who can talk endlessly about the magic of books. To talk to her about either, reach her at s.erumnoor@gmail.com.