Angles

My eyes burn. I step outside into cool night air. The smoke from downstairs is subdued and the laughter calming from drunkenness to tiredness.

I want to smudge my eyes with dark eyeliner and look at you behind masked and falsely thick lashes.

The wooden seat creaks and I'm too tired to wonder how many people have sat in it before. We are at the perfect height up here, I realize as I look at the lights of apartment houses and passing cars. We can witness it all without needing to step down. My perfect height.

I type in small windows so I can see what is going on.

There is a light in your window, I know.

I would like someone to come around the corner and up this shadowy road. I would like them to wave to me. Call my name. Sit up here with me for awhile, in silence.

I don't need to be amazing. I've done enough work. I would like to be amazed right now. I would like to be engaged, fascinated. I want to do the kind of work someday that makes me eager to be where I am with who is there. Is it too much to want that now?

The traffic light flashes red and yellow.

I type in small windows to remind myself of perspective.

It is time to sleep, I tell myself, and go into bed, but not to bed.

I want to walk down the road and around the corner.