Woman by the window

She was standing by the window, she always does.

Her shapely calves, her blue dress was knee high,

She was looking straight out.

I was nowhere.

It was a beautiful house I built, by the lake,

When the sun set, I had windows opening to it.

Such is my fascination with it.

The little boat which was seemingly rowing, without sails,

Perhaps, a man looking to be alone, perhaps, a couple, 

Looking to be together,

She was staring through them, 

She was not melancholic.

Her elbows, placed on the window pane, never moved,

Her hair did, as it was untied, with the breeze, it flew in,

Perhaps, some entered her mouth, but she never knew,

She was looking on, looking afar, amidst the cotton clouds.

Her sandals, huaraches, showed her heel, pink from standing,

Her dress hugged her, and her lines were distinct, every swelling to every valley,

In the window, her scarf lay, same blue as her dress,

Blue through which you could see, blue which was never out of the view.

The panes glowed orange now, and so did her margins, as sun laid down,

The lake became the same as the sky, the boat a spec in it, further back,

As if in horizon, its destination lay, Her hair still kept flying.

There is some scent, so typically wild, that it turns your stomach,

And you feel the pressure down, that you need to be hugged and caressed,

That was the scent of the wind then.

Did she know of it?

The wooden plates of the floor were brown, touch darker then her brown skin,

I knew the colour of her nipples, I knew the colour of everything alive,

That lived in her, that died in her, or so I thought,

For I can see only her blue and brown now.

She always stood there, but then, she stood face inside, the window open,

Her legs could be made out through her dress, in that orange light,

I could not see her face, I just could see her smile,

More often I would here that, like forgotten springs,

Warm and full of sulfur, they carried the same smoke with them.

But, she was looking outside now.

In love, her embraces came, came invitations to make joy,

Came kisses, and whispers, moans, and pleasure, came our bodies, alone, or together.

But, still everywhere, we touched, there were something more to touch, more to find.

As Dona Fargo sang, that there is this certain kind of something,

That everybody searches, we did not find it, we did not bother.

There is a couch in my room, she called it alter,

There we sacrificed our shame, yes, for we were never so expressive,

For to be naked, it was a great deed, so we managed to hug quickly, 

And it ignited, it still burns, and I sit there, looking at her,

Does she notice it?

There, far, lay those parts, which are dreams yet, neither grasped or lost,

Dreams, her children, she wishes them well, before she goes in labour, to have them with me.

She waits for them, watches them for the last time, as she never would, for men change,

More so, in love, she looks through the world as this is the last time she does it.

P.S. Image by Salvador Dali