door bells and other things that go bump in the night

I’m not really here, he says
and it’s the tone of conspiracy that settles me.
stuck like coffee grounds after the last sip.
I wonder why his voice always feels like stolen currency.
like a light I was never suppose to read by.
we aren’t really anywhere, i hear myself reply
now, he cries, now I think you might finally be getting it
I ask a bunch of questions to which I already know the answers, and he tells a story about a beautiful girl he’s just met. Until I say I have to go, I listen to Maxwell and draw circles on a piece of lavender scratch paper next to the phone.