The eighth floor

It’s quiet up here
On the eighth floor
Where the boards are creaky and the window lets in a draft.
Sometimes we’ll listen to the radio and let the broken sounds of the talking fill the empty rooms.
It’s a secret to be here
Opening a package of graham crackers and trying to eat them silently,
Crumbs spilling on the floor.
It’s silent up here on the eighth floor.
The laundry hangs between us and the next building.
Last year the neighbor yelled over to us if we would attach the string to our windowsill,
So we did,
Closing the shades quickly after our short conversation.
There’s a note scrawled on the door frame that leads into the closet,
It says, little did she know.
We wonder what she did know. 
It’s sad up here on the eighth floor.
Sometimes we’ll play music very quietly so no one can hear us,
Usually Mozart but sometimes I’ll ask for J. Balvin.
Maybe this place has a past,
But it’s hidden so deep, muffled in the old linens in the closet,
I don’t think we’ll ever hear it.