The window was the aperture this evening. Around him though, the room was dark. The darkness made it infinite in size because it’s warm walls were inaccessible in the silence. On the ceiling the fan bumped at each rotation. Some rustling from it’s air by her letter on the table. He’d eagerly opened it’s envelope in the light of the day gone past and now stood there and watched out the window as the world got dark in the dusky haze of what he had read. Waiting for some revelation to stream through and enlighten his spirit. Listening the ocean waves organized the sound in a kind of crashing on the beach below. She’d gone now, so it read. Back to the other side of that enormous ocean. The crashing waves emphasizing the letter’s inevitability.
What was the window without her,
when the home had borne her smile and tears.
Years she had spent here looking out
and stroking the sill with her fears.
How much starlight through that window would come before that moment when it’s nightly spell would splinter into her laughter and dance when she might return and prove the letter wrong.
photo : Window at Chambord : Used with Permission from Flickr:Tersiiska