View

I see your home from my window.

The place where you live.

Your home.

At least I think that's what I see. What is real is not all that I see.

The view makes my stomach turn. Three o 'clock in the afternoon concentrating on the hands going around. The thought of you almost walking through the door. The light of your home spilling out. Reaching out to me sat here in my darkness.

I remember lying on the floor. Toes turned up. Face turned down.

I am always there. Falling below the surface. Below the lips of the window. Just out of reach of the footsteps passing by. Your boots. Black leather. Sharp toe. I imagine. I hear you coming up the stairs. I wait for your hand to touch the glass of my front door. I wait and I wait.

I was unreachable to you. Driftwood in the filth.

I watched your stray hairs gathering on the linoleum. Falling like fairy dust. But filth. Filthy dust. They made me writhe in discomfort. Just thinking of raising my hand to wipe them away made me cry. So they stayed. They are still there. They disappear when my eyes close. Everything disappears when my eyes close. You go too. Just for a moment.

It is not by chance that I sit rigid behind glass and curtain watching you. No lights to betray me. No noise to identify my presence.

You have become my focus point. My panorama. My one vision.

Every face is your face. Every voice you calling to me.

You trap me yet keep me alive.

Just the wish to see you keeps me safe on the floor. Unmoving. Unmovable.

But still dreaming of a better view.