I see her.
It's like I'm looking at a black and white picture.
Her light brown hair
Is curled and pinned up.
The long white beaded dress grazes the floor.
I can see
The slight curve of her shoulder-blade
And bare arms that connect to fingers
Tracing tears on glass.
That face of hers is plastered up against a cool window pane.
She doesn't want to be her(e).
I watch as her eyes flit to the floor.
Her eyelashes look newly paved and a mile long.
She looks as if her proper place belongs in the past.
Another era, a different click of the clock.
Beauty like that these days goes unseen.
Maybe I have jumped through a mirror
And found myself displaced in time.
She presses her face back against the cold glass.
I wonder what she dreams of...
And why she feels this needless urge
To run.