The View From His Window

my hand
pressed against your
Pane cold coursing
through my fingertips,
traveling straight to my heart
like an arrow, shot perfectly
Without hesitation
you turn around,
but I am translucent, as always,
and your eyes go through me,
leaving behind holes, burning
like dry ice and my vapor rises,
condensing in a slow-spreading
pattern on your window
until, with shock, you notice
and stare at what’s left of me,
in awe of the intricate contours
I’ve so discreetly etched
into your impenetrable armor.