Cataracts

The window before me is scratched and dirty

With your name scrawled across it in sprawling script.

My view is obscured,

My focus distracted by memories of you.

But a flash of motion beyond the pane

Piques my interest, drawing me from

My lugubrious reminiscences.

In an effort to better view that which intrigued me,

I wet my thumb and firmly obscure your name into a dark fog,

And then nonexistence.

Now, strangely, I can see --

The first time in three years I have not had to peer

Out between vowels.