The Shape at Five

You knew when they woke up.

6:47, always. The lamp went on in the window,

that specific window on the third floor,

and you'd catch the silhouette moving

from the bed to somewhere else.

Bathroom. Kitchen. Back again.

You knew when they came home.

5:22 on weekdays, later on weekends,

the shape appearing in a different room,

always that same posture,

shoulders forward like they were tired

before they'd even stopped moving.

You made a whole person out of that shape.

A life. A job you never learned.

A name you never asked for.

Seven months of windows.

Seven months of a schedule

more familiar to you than your own mother's,

and you left without ever learning

if they were sad or happy or just existing

in that particular rectangle of light.

The new apartment has no neighbors

you can see like this.

The windows face brick.

The darkness is absolute.

You miss them already,

this person you invented

from silhouettes and timing.

You miss knowing someone

without the burden of their knowing you.

You miss the stranger

whose life made sense

only in the distance.

Now you're alone in the real way,

and it's worse than the loneliness

of watching through glass.