It’s the earliest light of today
and the man is walking back from the mail box
his belly round, his posture bad,
carrying the mail in one hand.

Each time his outline is distorted
I notice another imprint of my lips
flawlessly preserved against the glass;
the (un)avoidable reminder of You.

By late evening I’ve noticed three white cars
the windows tinted like shields
against my false-hope stares,
but I know they’re just doppelgangers
turning the corner and driving away.

At midnight I see the fireflies sprinkle my yard,
the streetlights finally put to work;
as the moon glazes my window
with that softly knowing glow.

So I bow to her,
the glass cool against my head
(like the kiss of a never-ending fever)
as I whisper my prayers to the windowpane
hoping the closer I am to God
the faster something will happen.

But by morning, only the man will walk by
his mail in the same hand;
defeated, unchanging, and almost surreal
as I sit by my window
waiting for an answer.