From my window, I see you once a week. You lean against the light blue wall and open a book. I've noticed you have two hats. One of straw, and the other fabric. Both light in color. You avoid the sun, a kindness to your pale skin. Though I've never seen you roll up your pants higher than your ankles. Modesty, I wonder?
I wish I could go outside again.
Deep in the silver mines by dawn, I rarely saw the light of day myself. The accident happened almost five years ago. The explosion threw me onto my belly, crushing most of the fellows from my crew along with my legs, calling down tons of black rock and earth. Their muffled groans of agony stay with me even now.
I am unfit for mining. or any other work. Most of my days are whiled away as I sit in this crooked chair, looking through my window. Slants of sunlight ease the pain in my legs for a couple of hours each day. My heart waits for the next sighting, for the next time you take your rest in the shadow of the cool blue wall.