Friday, March 2, 2012

The Window

There is a window in her room
The one she sits at
Day after day
Watching the life she used to know
Stroll by
Hand in hand or pushing a stroller
She rubs her empty palms now and then
So that the blood will flow
Although she wonders
It wouldn’t be better to let it dry up
Her eyes mist over at remembered kisses
Forgotten moments jump to the fore
And as she drifts she dances
Eyes closed humming a tune
 The glass is fogging over
She decides that
The plant on the windowsill
Looks lonely

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