As I Stand Here Looking

I'm looking up at those framed boxes, 

supercuts of people living out their lives

basking in their warm glow of yellow.

What are they doing?

There's asphalt under my feet.

Is that cashmere under yours?

I'm chasing the heat from those windows,

people exhausting their evenings

with redundant questions and habitual answers.

That's what they are doing. 

I'm overwhelmed with the stench of rain.

Is that dinner you smell?

I'm peering past your curtains,

longing for the yellow, wanting to be its silhouette.

Jarring wind slashes my wrists.

Are you warm up there?

The clutter on your coffee table makes me laugh and

your bookshelf arranged like mine 

makes me smug with pride but

the plants you've managed to keep alive 

only dig trenches for my guilt to fill.

This game of compare and contrast I play,

drawing venn diagrams, taking pride only in the mutually exclusive. 

The yellow boxes are only films of my own illusions;

Nonsensical jealousies of other people living better lives

The truth is I don't really know you.

And maybe you are just like me: 

Are you also thinking, 'what comes next?'

'How do I fill the averageness of a weekend?'

So all that I can say is:

There's no possible way you are happier than me.