The Window Nobody Opens

The Window Nobody Opens

There’s a window at the top of the house.

It stares out over fields that forget your name.

Dust has made lace of the curtains,

and the air hums softly with waiting.

I used to climb those stairs when I was young.

Press my palm to the glass and pretend

the world beyond it was kind,

that it might one day call me home.

Now the window stays closed,

its frame swollen with time and rain.

But some nights I see a faint glow there,

as if someone still stands behind it.

Maybe it’s just memory taking shape,

or maybe the house remembers me too.

Either way, I never open it.

Some views are meant to stay unbroken.