I can see the yellow light through her open window. Her room is on the second floor on the left. She has two windows where you can see into her bedroom. Every night I walk by her house at six, fifty-eight every day. I'm not stalking her, I promise. It is interesting to imagine what she does through those windows. I can see her string lights on some days, it is those bulb ones you see around trees during the winter. She attaches her artwork on a string as they get done. Every time they change, they are a different theme. It is beautiful the way she portrays herself. I can imagine she slips off her clothes, throws them into a basket, and falls into her bed. She doesn't hesitate, like others, about what's happening below her or if someone happened to see her pale skin as she undressed. The window remains open, curtain and all. Late at night, the music drifts through the crack. It is clear that she's weeping, that she feels burdened with some type of sensation she's experiencing. Every night I catch her crying to herself out the window, I see a shadowy figure walk out her door. The human is typically covered in a liquid but through the darkness, I can never make out much more than that. I want to save the lady, comfort her as her sadness swallows her, and protect her from the person who walks with defeat as she wails up above. I want to observe her on a chair that is placed right before the edge of her room. I want to remember the way she flops on her bed, the way she deliberately hangs the pictures on the wall, and the way her music flows out of her window. I want to keep my faults and sins away from her but for now, I will continue walking by her house. I will imagine all that keeps hidden through the four walls of her house and continue passing by at six, fifty-eight.