All these days are processions as they file past my window. I watch them all and see how you are always marching inside them. You have a face composed of belonging and certainty, and your step seems so sure that you are marching in time.
Each day, I sit, apart, alone, creating new worlds inside this small room, while you march on confidently towards the end of your vision.
I see all I need from this window, but sometimes my breath fogs it up, or the pressure of my fingertips obscures each day marching by outside.
Some days I wish I had the nerve to pass through this glass and fall like light into the street outside, ready to compose my mask of belonging and join in your marching songs.
Instead, I dream of a tomorrow when the procession marches on while you remain, standing still, then turn to stare back through my open window and I take your outstretched hand to pull you in.
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