Sometimes I sit by my window and wait,
I don't know what I am waiting for,
I can’t see much from my window, a little courtyard of office buildings,
A ballerina can be seen from the one window that isn't frosted over,
She changes her pointe shoes, and I can see the bruises as I wait and watch.
The poise she possesses captivates me. Moments that a normal person might cry over.
Sometimes I sit by my window and wait,
I don't know what I am waiting for,
I can’t see much from my window, a little courtyard of office buildings, and a bruised ballerina,
A window to my left is always open and glowing orange,
I ponder the individual who lives there,
I wonder how they get into their flat, it seems impossible,
Do they have blonde hair or brown,
Are their eyes green, or do they match the flickers of amber in their lighting.
Sometimes I sit by my window and wait,
I don't know what I am waiting for,
I can't see much from my window, a little courtyard of office buildings, a bruised ballerina, a glowing orange window,
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