Dripping on the inside. Slowly.
A stale smudge of air. Brown-
Green tinge to everything.
It tastes like disappointment
In here. Ferric on my tongue.
Sadness shrouded with reverence.
The sash no longer opens. But
Crumbles to my touch. Its former
Gilt staining my hands. Like
Cupping my fingers around
Your waist. Feeling the pulse jump
Between my body and yours.
Somewhere outside a dog barks.
The distant trill of a telephone.
One might almost imagine a bird.
A living thing. If such things
Existed. In some place in time.
There is a woman standing.
Facing the window. Curtains half-
Drawn. Tissue-thin paper falls.
From her unclenched hands.