Voyeuristic confessions of the eye

We'd kissed and with careless abandon. In front of people and not.
We'd held hands.
We'd danced.
Sure fingers that entwined suggestively.
Laughs that carried far in the summer wind.

I'd locked him out of the car only to let him in after he'd kissed the dust stained windows more times than I wanted.

Eyes. They watched.

Resentful looks. Envious and bitter looks that bruised us purple. They were the ones who married without love.

Lost looks. Bemused ones even. They were the ones who lost a love after they married.

Scornful looks. Dripping with contempt and disdain. They were the ones who were the infidels.

Shy looks. Bashful and coy, like a teenager. An innocence that will soon be raped of.

Sneaking looks. Warm breaths drawn back, lined with sidelong second glances. Voyeurism even when not from a secret vantage point.

All the people who'd watched us must have made love that night. Or at least had sex.