Well, come in.

This is where you'll be staying.

The matress screaks every once in a while
and the springs have weakened in the middle.
There are these mornings
when there's nothing to see outside,
and nights when footsteps can be heard on the landing.

The place used to be wider.
But the one before you
didn't need all that room,
he was usually gone anyway.
When he went for good,
he left two walls behind,
and all his stupid things in a box.
Don't worry, I've heard time makes them go away.

The rent is final and I accept no delays.
Calm down, I say that to everyone.
A couple of days gone by and I completely forget.

Otherwise, nothing unusual.
Across the hall, mom and dad
still fight at times.
In the attick, I'm 4 and I play
with yellow plastic marbles.
Grandma strolls along the corridors in the morning,
she's halfway blind and keeps stumbling on the mats.

It's never quiet,
though sometimes, when the ceilings leak,
it seems everyone's moved out,
gone to other hearts.

That's it. I'll be droping by in the evenings,
with coffe and crumbles.
And early in the morning,
to wipe the blood off the floors.

If something gets broken because of you,
I might never tell you.

If you're not home,
I might go through your things
and discover something terrible.

If you move out,
you'd better take all your luggage with you.
Otherwise, I might be looking for you all my life,
to return your stuff.

If you move out,
I might find myself somebody else
the very same day.
After all, it's not a regular heart, is it?
It's got all the modern aplliances
and the cheapest rent.