Exposure

They're sitting on the fire escape across the street.

Legs hanging through the railing like they trust it,

like they've tested its failure points

and decided it's fine.

One shoe off.

One shoe dangling from their toes.

Dusk is happening.

The metal is getting cold and they're not moving.

This is the kind of thing

you're not supposed to watch,

the kind of moment that belongs to someone else,

that's too quiet to interrupt,

too still to be performance.

But the window is right there.

The distance is right there.

And they're not hiding.

They're just existing in a way

that makes me feel like a voyeur,

like I'm stealing something

by seeing it—

their bare feet,

their stillness,

the fact that they're so exposed

and so untouched by it.

I think about calling out.

I think about going back inside.

I think about the distance between windows,

between the person who is being seen

and the person doing the seeing.

The light is almost gone.

They're still there.

Still dangling.

Still trusting the metal

to hold them in the open

where anyone could look.