Our window is an ever changing frame
Left to its own devices
It never moves from its placement in our old home
Yet never shattered once
On good days, nothing but the ticking clock is disturbed
Those days of silly arguments we forgot
The moment the ice cream man begun his serenade
On bad days grey inkblots would erase that baby blue
Forcing cabin fever down our throats
At the loss of movie night
Yet there are the nights you sit alone, lost in the races
Between short lives of the rain cloud's children
Nights where you join the portrait's current mood
Our window is an ever changing frame
Capturing each moment of our existence
Replacing your trace