He watches the rain
Not through the glass of the window
But instead he watches its reflection
Against her pale skin as she sleeps.
He watches the sun
Not with eyes on the sky
But instead he watches the way it
Catches in her hair when she turns suddenly to look at him.
He watches the moon
Not by the shadows it casts on the wooden floor once the lights are gone
But instead he watches it fill the hollows
Of her collarbone and wonders if trapped light has a taste.
He watches the world
Not by the rushing blur it gives him as it unwinds in front of his eyes
But instead he watches it in every shade and shadow and point of light
That shows over her quietly expressive face.