The light is on; a shadow passes through the window,
Like clockwork, every day as I pass on the street.
Days come and nights go, the routine continues.
There she is again though I barely see her, like the painting on a wall you stopped seeing.
Until the day I pass on the street,
The clockwork stops.
The light is off, no shadow passes the window.
“They say she ended it herself but no one knows who she was.” A stranger murmurs to his friend.
No one did, the wind whispers as a shadow crosses the window one last time.
*But you could have.