He really has an unfortunate face,
a sort of lumpy squish-shaped nose,
and charred-tomato skin,
melting off his bones.
His bloated hands rub slow circles on the window pane.

Yet his eyes are clear and sharp,
tracing my tired movements as I
pretend not to notice. There’s a depraved
thrill in being watched, I think, a wanton
delight in being wanted, that
I have sorely missed.
Lightheaded, I arrange myself
carefully upon my king-sized bed
(far too large for a single, lonely woman),
backside facing the window,
stained t-shirt draped in an ever-so-dangerous way.
Us repugnant fools,
we must find solace in each other.
His deviant eyes burn as they
crawl up and down my wise body,
undressing me rather unkindly,
until the only barrier between him and me is the dirty window.
I miss being touched.

My love is all but pressed against the glass,
staring, unabashedly hungry.

It’s a clumsy affair,
I delicately enter his window-washing chair
which tips violently with every movement.
There’s a certain thrill in being watched, I think,
and the city watches.
As my bare legs settle upon his,
the chair pitches backward and I,
untethered by safety equipment,
am flung into the open air.