Far Away
I lean my forehead against the glass.
I feel the cold press into it. I don’t open the window.
My eyes scan the view below me, searching for something I can’t quite comprehend.
A single street lamp lights up the quiet, empty street.
There are no people at this hour of night.
No movement. Comfort doesn’t find me.
I think now that I could open the window, sit against the ledge, as my feet dangle in the air.
Or maybe I could go down the stairs,
open the front door and step outside, even for a moment.
But fear crawls through my mind.
The thought leaves my brain, though its essence lingers in the air.
And fear turns to sadness.
The room I’m in is warm, compared to the harsh cold on the streets,
but it doesn’t bring me calm.
Inside, there is a light coming from a hallway somewhere that seems far,
though it’s barely meters away.
The television is on, playing a black and white show I stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago.
It’s late, and I haven’t slept, just like the days before.
There is something inside that speaks, even though I don’t want to listen.
I pick up an empty glass, sitting on the edge of the couch,
and find myself unable to stand, or bring myself to fill it.
I run my fingers along the shape of the glass, feeling out every crevice engraved onto its surface.
And I’m thirsty.
But I take a puff of something I should’ve quit a long time ago, and I stare at the television,
though the sound won’t reach my ears.
The curtains are still open.
I look out the window again, though this time I can’t think.
I gaze at the street, the trees, the sky, hoping that something’s changed.
But everything is dormant, and only I seem to be different.
Seconds, minutes go by. They feel long, though I don’t count them.
My eyes go numb, but I refuse to close them.
I hear the sound of a car passing, and I desperately look for movement.
I stay still, waiting for something that’s already gone.
But the sound fades away,
somewhere my eyes can’t reach.
So close, but far away.
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