Tonight, I resisted the urge to blare my music. I take soft steps around soiled socks then blow foul smoke out the crack of a window. The same one I watch the seasons change through. My tree-top jungle--with the Brooklyn Queens Expressway far enough in the distance to sound like crashing waves--turns into skeletons missing their clothes. The same window I squint through the mid-day brightness to watch people shake cocktails on a roof deck. In the summer, I watch them on their perch and fantasize about sun-soaking my skin on their lounge chairs. Then I realize I live in a voyeuristic city. I remember all the kisses those cocktail sippers have seen through my window over the year and I bet myself two more minutes of sleep that if I ever made it to that roof deck, I would see my bed through this window and want to be sprawled across it. Kissing a man with cigarette breathe.