I see him in spurts, sometimes taking the bins out, sometimes washing his old pick-up truck.Through the blinds, I see his slitted form.
Ah, he is not slitted, my view is.
And I know it will remain as is forever. I know I will never have the courage to set foot outside again. To walk up to him. My scars are painful, the mirror shows me my horrible, deformed, ugly form.
Yet, I wait for him. I wait for him to somehow see me and feel me behind the blinds, see my yearning and my love, see me beyond my ugliness.
I wait for life, neither alive nor dead, burrowing deep into my own self, waiting him to make me whole and alive again. A wait that will never be over.