The night is still and I can hear you breathing. You’re not aiming to have a conversation, but want to let me know that you are here in case I have something to say. Years ago, before the drugs and cynicism took over, we use to have beautiful conversations. You’d sit there looking down at me like the child that I was, all puffy and overweight. I could see your face every time I leaned into that window and sometimes I would press my lips against it because I loved you so much. Sometimes I would cry because the words wouldn’t last, and sometimes I would just stay quiet, looking up at you with hopeful eyes. I wish I would have known then what I know now – that you weren’t going to make my dreams come true no matter how hard I rubbed. That if I wanted something I should have stopped crying and talking and staring and gone for it. Was it a waste of time? I mean all those days that I spent standing by that window, talking into the dark sky?