Looking out past the window,
looking out to the past,
there are smokers in the meadow,
there are citadels in the grass.
You see,

I am blind under the small-talk lighting,
I am blind to managing debts,
half a person delivered in writing,
half a person pressed to your chest.
You see,

I have fallen in love with the poet,
I have fallen out with the sun,
for turning words into sweat,
for staying inside too long.
You see,

looking back at swollen passions,
looking back at future dread,
I have given up on asking questions,
I have grown used to an empty bed.