Weeks pass by,
and the sun vomits days
onto a calendar and I spill onto blank computer screens.
Two windows live next to me,
kissing the ceiling,
and reaching down to the floor.
They live in perfect harmony
with the skies,
and are shy only of the setting sun.
Every evening,
I look at windows and the planes they carry
and wish I was the window.
To have people and stories
and paths to tread on, arms to fall in,
to have a destination to go to, sighs to breathe in.

I wish I was the window,
framing perfect fleeting moments - an eternal second,
the blink-blink of evening skies
clink-clink of mugs,
orchestrating the perfect symphony,
always in disarray but never of tune.

I wish I was the window,
to be shifting sand dunes of visions,
to be home to slightly changing constants,
a broken delta sign -

I am so close to being a window,
but your eyes are yet to look through me.