take this of me: a collection of sea shells

 My heat has been locked up for years.
I go to the door, ask if it would like some water. 

It says nothing.

I know you're in there. I can hear you breathing, I say.
It runs, leaping into the spot my ear still presses against the door. The thud

is a wave of drums, slow and deep caved, enveloping.
The floor splits. 

Childhood drawings of lightening bolts streak the room. 
The room rises as if on platform, flaking chunks of drywall plummet into the Sound below.

Sharks jump out of water and bite the air.
Wind speeds up the tune and becomes laboring to breath deeply. 

I stagger to the only partial wall still standing, a corner window.
And as I'm falling, I think, how trivial the debate over red or red-red light-proof curtains were.

When I come to, chipped nails pile the floor like a collection of sea shells.
I must have pawed at the door for years.