I trace her face, fill in the empty spaces with pigmented hues.

High up on the eighth floor, we idly sit as I dip my brush in cheap paint

and desperately try to color her in.

The old man on the first-floor pounds his door,

stumbles on his words,

cursing out his ex-wife.

The young couple living on the second floor

walk past him, mumbling something.

The baby on the third-floor cries on cue,

“shouldn’t he be eight by now?” she tells me.

I think I’ve mistaken 2020 for 2012.

And the sweet family on the fourth floor

stomp their feet furiously

“Can you make that kid shut up!” she mouths their words.

The secretly gay dude on the fifth-floor sneaks in his boyfriend

-his room mate-

I mix the two sometimes.

By 9:30 p.m., the lady on the sixth floor wakes up

ready to bellow racial slurs at the young woman living on the seventh floor

who has just returned from her night shift.

I dip my brush one more time,

muffled voices

mix together with the shitty mixtape she gave me three years ago.

High up on the eighth floor, we idly sit as I dip my brush in cheap paint

and desperately try to color her in.