Window

Somehow you have gotten in the habit of watching him,

twisting and heaving in the sun.

Your hands always feel a little colourless when his

burn bright with sweat, moisture dripping down

his skinny arms, making trails in the dust.

His eyes, when you can see them gazing mournfully

at the sky, glint of fatigue

but in what quantity you can never put in words.

Your office manager has never known moderation;

your pale skin ripples with goose bumps

in the unnatural air, blowing from the walls.

You try to hide your sniffles whenever

she walks past.

Your own eyes you do not know;

the streetlamps always muddy your reflection

in the window, in the heavy, warm nights you leave

for home in.

Some nights, thinking idly of the afternoon heat,

you wonder if the windowsill you sit on is not the

edge peering into happiness, and if it is you

that is waiting, looking in.