A window, a window-
A gateway to the big, wide World.
A nest where opportunities,
A million chances, and Fate are bred.
Cracked wooden frame,
The nails that have sunk in quite comfortably,
In the small, neglected corners.
After all, it is just a window.
The windows in that house of mine, remind me
Once again, of you, my Dear.
How many times did I hide behind,
The old, musty patterned curtains in the evening,
Just to steal a glance?
I remember the print, as well as I remember your face,
All these years later.
Those were happy times, that did go by.
Blackened elbows, blackened knees,
And arms covered in dust,
From panes covered in the same,
Secret smiles, long lost
And tears, long dried,
Blood from the clumsy cuts and scratches,
Delivered by the comfortable nails, in corners neglected.
All, most, dedicated to you.
We lived, back then, in places nice,
Away from the city.
A place where the sky was multilingual,
And a clever harlequin,
When viewed from, a room full of darkness,
Through glass, stained, a dull streetlamp yellow in summer nights,
A strange, bittersweet, blue in the rain,
And my very, hopeful breath, in winter.
Yet, it was still a window,
A window to the world.