There are 28 windows on 2 of the levels of the boat outside the window. There is one of me staring at the four of you sitting in two of the windows, watching the world outside you with no particular desire written on your tired American faces. The end of the day is spelled out in tiny lines across the language of your eyes, and you are lost in a grace you do not know.

You are not being watched as long as you think that you are not being watched. You are not ending the day with eyes on your eyes as long as you think that you are not ending the day this way. You are left alone with the rhythm of waves and the tiny failures of being you today, and you are alone as long as you believe you are alone.

My heartbeat matches the movement of the water beneath your feet, and I am with you. I am here and I am watching, but I am not a part of the world you know. As long as you do not know me, I am not a part of the world you know. It is the idea of anonymity that balances your every movement, and you believe beyond belief in this, the idea that you are unknown outside of the people that you know, and I cannot be the one to tell you a different truth. I cannot be the one to tell your story in lined lips and limited smiles, I cannot write your wrongs in a way you’d understand, a way you’d know was true.

Your feet move, stutterstep. For a moment microscopic, you turn my way and I think that you saw the me watching the you that watches the world this way, at the end of this and every day. For a moment microscopic, I know the you written between the lines between your eyes, and I can sleep.