A romantic tale of voyeurism

Being in this substantially unpretentious box-room of my most recent lodgings, I've come to see a few things of my opposite neighbours. In particular, their bathroom draws my eye when I see through the blur of amalgamated glass, the figure's of persons going about their most private deeds. I do not doubt they've likewise seen me in the act of particular motions.
   This poem is to that/those/her mysterious figure that I see/saw; alluring as always in androgyny.
But really, it's intended as an echo to a poem I wrote a small few years ago.

To the girl in the window:

I wonder if you’ve seen me watching,

trying to steal a glimpse

of your silhouette

as you step

from the shower

into a towel of mist

that’s trapped behind

a pane of glass-

and lingering deeper

through the pane

and the fog,

there’s me.

I’d love for you

to catch my eye,

share a smile

with my sinister glance

and allow me

to participate

in this neighbour’s

stranger’s love

where the only evidence to remain

is my shadow

on your wall.