Last Thursday, I saw the architect naked,

through the foggy windows

and pearly, sheer curtains.

I saw the architect in the shower.

Steam spilled out from the cracked window,

and into the streets below.

My panes collect misty droplets.

When I open them, the architect's

out of tune humming drips onto my sill.

Last Friday, I sat in the park with the architect.

The architect's eyes followed prancing dogs,

who happily frolicked in the freshly bloomed flowers.

I saw the architect fade in and out of focus,

attention drawn away from hand drawn sketches.

Pollen stretched across the stiff, smudged lines.

The architect's fingers are ashy from graphite

and years of unyielding experience.

Fingerprints line the edges of the sketch I carry home.

Last Sunday, I saw the architect naked,

through the cracks of an open

door and a dewy mirror.

I saw the architect step out of the shower.

Soapy, humid air chased away the moon,

and lured out the dusty pink horizon.

The architect studied the homes outside my window,

damp hair leaving a trail of droplets on my floor.

From the sill, I appraised the architect's exterior paint,

chipped and peeling, a result of humid weather.

The sun-bleached paint retains some of its vibrant

green hues. The architect dozed off under the dawn's dust.