November 21, 2014

I Sleep with my Window Open. {Poem}


On those glorious days when wake-up calls do not consist of clothing and alarm clocks, I filter into awareness slowly.

The literal sensation of floating upward through dark water, layer by layer of glimmering light getting brighter until, alas, the surface is awakening.

The artificial realities of the dream-state melt as each sense gradually twitches alive to the true existence in the present day.

Rain. My favorite weather.

The open-window-soundtrack is my neighbor’s blend of reggae and classic rock with the broken beats of nature’s purifying tears somehow managing to merge seamlessly with a tap dancer’s rhythm from several floors above.

A tapdancer?

It’s been years since I’ve heard the beat of someone’s feet. Dancing to their own internal tune and tempo.

This urban living, so vibrant, speaks to my soul, nearly to the extent of Roman siestas consisting of sunshine naps and wine to the anonymous serenade of some nearby pianist.

But we have fewer pianists. That was a European pleasure.

I sleep with my window open.

I often fall into slumber to the sounds of laughter, peoples’ voices, the tune of a meaningful life, rarely able to make out any words, the essence is clear. It gives me pleasure, content to be on the outside, merely the listener.

I am visible, in my garden level, curtains wide. How many times have passers-by looked down at my partially exposed resting body? I do not care. In fact, it makes me smile to imagine strangers catching an intimate glimpse.

There are too many walls, too many veils, too little transparency in this world. Let them look. Just a moment of honesty, a glance at a forbidden treasure.

I sleep with my window open.

How many times have I heard coupling from someone else’s home, sharing a wall or floor or sound tunnel with my own, almost imperceptible at first, simply a shifting of furniture, a measured cadence written in the building itself…

I gradually hear voices join the symphony as the intensity increases. I feel somewhat mischievous in my pleasure at hearing, uninvited, someone else’s private moments, an unintended voyeur.

But it does not give me discomfort. Proof there is still love and lust in this existence provides me with immeasurable joy.

How many times have outsiders bore visible or audible witness to my own passion? I do not care. Let them listen. Let them observe.

I sleep with my window open.

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Author: Christin Brandow

Editor: Catherine Monkman

Photo: Author’s Own

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