I am looking up at your window and I can see your shape at the computer. I see all of your little silhouettes framed with the springtime flowers and blooming luscious tree stuff that surrounds the yard. I am in the night, arms open to the possibility that you might come meet me, at least halfway. I would run to the bottom of the stairs and you would open your window or climb into the tree or smile back at me. All of you would come rushing out into the yard with shouts and laughter. I would barely be able to contain myself. Someone would start to play the guitar and someone else would know what to do with drums. The blossoms would float through the breeze, catching on the benches and piling up on the dark green patches and over the paths. Someone would suggest a drink and you would all agree. I would make myself something with tequila and mint. There would be twirling and whispers and party lights and cigarettes and songs. I am so glad you think this is such a good idea. Exhausted, I sneak up to your window. I smell your room and my own perfume. I lean out the open window and watch the rest of you dance into dreams.
You watched me wash my brushes out every night. Waited patiently for me to turn the light off and leave you to your tapping and clicking. I thought your little Blattaria feet gave me reason to curl my toes. Your shadow delivered the possibility of a late night encounter, it was always a deadlock. You never budged, not even a slight scamper. We had an understanding. Two creatures with nothing to lose by allowing the other a peaceful and quiet evening. Now you are nothing more than a smudge on the grey cement floor. I miss you every time I see the mark that was made between yourself and that cruel heel. My cucaracha, how I miss your taking up that space below the pipe, under the sink that I wash my brushes out in every night.