She cries, the woman
whose name I don't know.
All alone.
Single malt tears
slide down her face
as I catch a glimpse
of her world, from mine.
I stare with morbid curiosity
through the windowpane
carelessly spattered
with droplets of rain
and absently trace
their random journey
to who knows where.
Intently watching
the woman with no name,
who hides her sorrow and her shame
away, from pity
and prying eyes like mine.

I condemn my compulsive
frame of mind
and break the spell that draws,
and holds me there,
that causes me to stare
and uninvitedly share
her pain, her fear and strife.
She haunts my subconcious thought
and I cannot but help return
each day to catch up on
the saga of her life.
I watch her silent monologue
of despair,
of rage and sorrow,
emotions that are not mine
to share.
Each time I solemnly swear
that I will not return
but watch some real life
drama on tv
instead of the reality
of her tragedy.

Time passes and I refrain
from peering obsessively
through the rain,
morbid nature
and curiosity untamed,
from my world
tinged with shame
to her world
awash with pain.
Stillness,
cools the curiosity
in my inquisitive brain
and the rain-washed window
drowns me in undiluted shame.
Still,
she lay,
just as I had left her
on that other rain-washed day.

I often sit when it rains
and peer through the windowpane
at the shadows of the woman
who had no name.
Sometimes, when the
clouds break
and the watery sun
casts a single malt glow,
I trace the transient tears
of the single malt rain,
the sorrows and fear,
remorse and shame
left in their wake
as they aimlessly
wander down
the window pane.