looked out the widows
she talks about,
though now, I look up at them,
not from equal height,
but from below,
like a stranger,
once one of the
select people
she invites into the inner sanctum,
now the person she wets her pillows over,
tears and night
sweats
that eradicate the more pleasant kind,
she, there, mostly
alone
with those who come
yet mostly go,
abandoning the view
out
for a less lofty view from the street,
they forget what it
feels like
to be on the inside.
I don’t.
They move on with their lives without her.
I don’t.
They came and went having gotten what they wanted.
I don’t, didn’t, and never will,
staring up at those windows,
where she sometimes perches,
all alone.
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