There is always a mystery about the window on the end of this side of my building. Some new thing every night I walk past. The flicker of a computer; maybe a sign of a lonely attempt at entertainment, or maybe a movie being played for two. There is sometimes a warm, distant glow emitted, perhaps from the bathroom, that disappears shortly after its birth. Often, music leaks out, seeping into my unwilling ears.
     Tonight I see the window is open. The brisk night air is invited inside as an old friend would be. Maybe your body grew too warm lying under your red blanket.  The air was never too cold with our bodies touching, yet it is too much for my bare arms now standing outside. I shiver. The blinds softly dance in and out of the window, and I wish it were I intruding once again.
     The blinds are being drawn up. The window is being closed. The nights are growing colder, and I think the breeze proved too cool for your lonely body. Or maybe it was too much for the new body entwined with yours. I want to walk a little farther, to glance inside and end the mystery of the window on the end. To see, if only for a moment, the hands that are working to close up that room from the world. Just a few more shuffles from my frozen, burning feet. But I cannot force myself to walk that far. I would rather continue dreaming from the outside of that ****** window, than to know that there is another me living inside.