if anyone was listening, they would have noticed

the humming that sounded too melodious to be passed off as a refrigerator

was no longer coming from room 128.

And if they had been so bold to break down the door,

they would have known she was gone,

not dead,

because there were no books left on the night-stand,

because out of the ten pairs of shoes, the eleventh was missing,

because the walls weren't hung with sticky-notes

of inspiration scribbles for poetry.

But no one ever knew her that well,

and so no one cared to break down the door,

not her best friend procrastinating the floor below,

not the guys who mocked and objectified her

to the point tears misted her eyes – it was all in fun.

She mused this, on the bus to Boston,

clad in black, so called friends crying facades of sorrow,

mourning the day she passed.

She laughed at the notion of her return, forever to haunt

room 128, but knew

if anyone was listening, they would have heard the refrigerator

and thought "It must be her."

though her voice was an octave higher.

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