Here

Not very often it happens.

Not very often that he shows up.

Not very often that he is here.

Every night I look out my window

To see if he has appeared

On the branch the aligns with my window.

Usually,

He isn’t there.

But on the rare occasion

That he does turn up,

He is squatting on the branch

With his trade smirk on his face

And his dark brown hair

Windswept and in disarray.

When I open the window

He always slips in like a cougar,

Lithe and graceful.

He stares at me as I walk away from him.

I am always in his line of sight.

He is always here,

Even if he isn’t physically,

He knows what I am doing

Ever minute of every hour

Of every day of every month.

He knew if she talked to a guy,

He knew if she went out on a date,

He knew if she flirted with another guy.

And when he appeared soon after

Whatever she had done,

It was never a good thing.

But,

In the end,

Unlike everyone else in her life,

He was still here.

He was here

To keep her company.

He was here

To love her.

He was here

To care for her.

He was

Here.