is tight.  Tighter than the last
notch on his belt. I can look in. He can
see out. But I’ll never feel the strands

of hair on his skin. Yet it won’t disturb
the view of his warm, tender smile
or the gleam in his eye that catches the

light. I shall never pass over the threshold
separating his space from the rest of the
world. This keeps him safe. There will never be

any confusion, the kind that lends itself when
there is union. The heavens can spit on me. But
not a drop will fall on he. The wind can whip

through my hair leaving it messy as the leaves. But
there will never be a wrinkle on him. Everything
under the jar is still. It silences the song of

the whippoorwill.  I won’t place my hand on
the glass. I would never want to make a smudge,
mar the view of the two of us. Because that view is
all we have. And I won’t be the one to streak the glass.