Keys

On a typewriter
with sticky keys
left by a previous tenant
I rewrite history.
In the awkward silence
of a repetitive I
I
I
I wonder
if you'll ever pay rent
on the ever-expanding space you take up.
out of room in my head
overflowing my heart
cracking under the strain
in the repetitive click
of the invisible I
I
I
I glance
at my apron
hanging under a water-stained ceiling.
A testament.