Floor to ceiling, glass
I stand on the sill
and lean forward
facing the ground
suspended over construction,
beautiful nostalgia
and a hundred people who don't
know they're being watched.
I belong up here, I think
always wondering if
it will crack beneath my forehead
and I'll go tumbling –
in slow motion, I hope –
towards the earth. But
I can't decide
if I'm meant to be down there
the watched, instead of
the watcher.
Who is happier?
The doer
or the observer? I
think the answer is buried beneath a little
self-awareness
and I don't have time
to search for it. I'm busy for
now
looking out the fourth floor window.