We watched you once
from the apartment across the street,
four pre-teen girls staring with charged curiosity
through your open curtains and into the room where you slept.

You walked – no, strutted, –
across the room, shedding clothes
and sporting a grin. We watched in fascination,
postponing our confession, naming it delicious sin.

My friends stood open-mouthed,
fascinated by your ever move. But I,
already sensing what would happen next, looked into
your thoughts as you stood in your underwear looking in a mirror.

I didn’t mean to listen in for long,
didn’t know how it was I heard what
I heard. Knowing you, knowing you and I both
loved life’s richer, more serious side, aroused me all the more.

Sure, I heard you think you liked me
but would, of course, not be seen with me.
I heard you dream of kissing her. I heard things I
did not want to know, should not have known, tried not to know.

I longed to tell you how it felt knowing you
mind to heart, not just head to toe, but I could not.
You might think me a crazed stalker. These signals come through
so strong, so clear. Truth be told, I’m just another listener tuning in.