We pull back sheer curtains like
we're shifting the weight on our
shoulders to the side, analyze the
lives of those we will never know.

We hand out names like carefully
chosen gifts, lovingly refer to
them by inevitable nicknames and
the pets whose claws scratch the
hardwood floor when they come home
and we're wondering how it would
feel to get that much of a reaction
from our tired feet and limping
smiles as we open the door.

When they don't return within their
usual thirty-minute window, we sit
by ours and wait for the sirens or
the lights or the worried lover or
else the eventual light to
illuminate the living room-
shadows dancing across the walls,
shapeshifting to proportions only
you can imagine them in.

They walk to shut the blinds, stop
and lift their eyes and for a
second you think they might catch
you watching, eyes wide shut but
open at the same time, oblivious
to the obviousness- ready to
introduce yourself to the only
person you've ever cared to know.