Through The Panes

[http://lykwys.deviantart.com/journal/8340348/]

Through The Panes

How every evening, he would anticipate her window panes opening up, her fingers gently tapping the frame (where he would imagine where he was instead, beside her, getting a glimpse of everything from her perspective), opening her room's full bodied window.

He would opt to hide every morning in the shadows of his own room, as a result of being in waking for the whole night, until the morning chirps of the sparrows beckon him to call it a day (or night). His bed, (now streaked with the morning rays coming from his grilled windows) with lights from the sky seemed hesitant, of whether to accompany him or not.

The woman through the other window (although he had the chance of knowing her name, he would dare not mention it) would move between the small square panes of her now open windows. Shadow fleeting by, it's a most peculiar feeling. Like a gust that had just brushed by, her presence was felt.

For a moment, the curtains would be draped again. He wonders what could she be doing on the other side, and his only thought was of her ruffling through the pages of her readings. After all, September rains tend to be gloomy although he doesn't think it to be so. Absorbed, she would drape the curtains. Rationalization for the comforts him.

He compares her to the air - unbounded, free-spirited, and enigmatic. She takes you where she wants to go. But he also knows that beneath the strong winds lie a gentle breeze.

If she is the air, then, he wishes to be the water (he thought of this while looking through his windows, with nothing but the draped curtains returning his gaze). Like water, he wishes to be her complement.

He can start to feel the raindrops getting bigger and bigger by the resounding sound of its patter.

His fingers refused to reach out the window, into the other house where the draped windows teased him. His slender fingers, the tips of them, trembled, with his veins throbbing like a flickering candle slowly losing its light. The rain would now drum harder against his roof. The sound of drumming against his head. The only sound that he hears.

The woman's panes, that he saw with great despair, were being slowly opened again exposing perhaps her whole room. Maybe not. Maybe just enough for him and her to exchange polite glimpses at each other. But the rain now flowed like a great curtain and his window panes were beginning to fog.

As the rain was easing to a slight drizzle, the man's hands were damp with cold sweat. His knees could barely hold him as he crawled from the bed to the floor and tried to stand up to take his final peek.

Between the streaks of the faint raindrops he thought he saw a silhouette of someone standing there, the woman, right in the middle of her window's frame. In his mind, a self-dialogue as unfolding. A self-dialogue that he would like to keep to himself. When he finally looked up to the woman's face, he saw her, smiling, staring back at him.

For the moment, he felt content. He felt content that the woman through the panes smiled back. It made him happy.