She opens her window, pulls up her blinds
She puts on her most beautiful hat
She sits at her desk
Playing her most obscure music
Writing her most beautiful pieces
Her room is perfectly scattered
From the street you can see everything
You can see her dancing and leaping
You can see her painting and weeping
You can see her sleep and wake
Each morning
You can see her kiss each boy
You can see her eyes drift to her window
Frequently
In-between kisses
You can see that she is consistently
Inside of her room
Whenever you walk by
You feel her eyes follow you
You can almost feel her
Willing herself upon you
Even when she kisses those boys
On her front lawn
And runs around with broken wine glasses
She’s always watching for you
Always leaving her window open
Hoping one day you’ll hear something
Or see something
That will make you want her
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He walks by the window crying
No – not crying he’s taking a piece of paper
And writing it all down
No, not writing he’s putting his tobacco in it
Rolling it up
Smoking it
Watching the rings trace his knotted hair
Watching the paper curl up into little red
Balls of fire
Imaging them fall onto her lap
And burning her into a crisp
He walks with a lazy purpose
Hoping to catch her gaze, she imagines
Hoping to drop balls of fire onto her
But he just watches the smoke
Walking lazily
She turns on the music she likes most
Opens the windows and pulls up the blinds
She sits at the table smartly
Typing her most brilliant work
She lights an incense and smokes a cigarette
Every time she takes a drag
She thinks about his life written on long arms
What else there might be
And balls of fire scorching her heart