For eons of blinks, I've stood looking out. Every night biding, every night begging, every night buying one more bottle of whisky to honor your turn to the window. Our connection, though brief, would be worth the cheers. But if you do not turn, if my biding, begging, or bottling continues, I will still drink. I must.
I know why you do not turn your eyes to me. I know why keep yourself bottled up, why you do not look out the window. I deduce you'd wish to dodge me, but it wouldn't do you much good. You know you couldn't see me if it were the thing you desired most in the world.
It's not, though. You likely desire for me to return your eyes.
But you know I won't, so you keep yourself turned, keep those soft pits hidden from my worship. It hurts, but not enough to let you win.
So, I will continue to bide. I will continue to beg. I will continue to drink.
Do you not see, my sweet? You were right to keep yourself turned. To the end, we should both keep to our bottles.