Sitting under a glass ceiling,
watching rain pour down the sides of the cube I'm trapped in.
you can feel it radiating off of the windows.
The sides of my face feel warm.
There's no lighting,
just what's coming through these windows.
Leaves are the windows of the trees,
the windows of the season.
You can always tell if a tree is good by how it's leaves look.
The windows of nature,
Or maybe I'm just looking too far into it.
You can see all these different colours in skin.
this delicate fabric woven from threads man-made.
The windows of humans,
our multicoloured paint palette.
Our bodies are used,
aged rags that we cart from room to room,
weathered and cracked like old books and some cultures praise age.
Why have we decided that being alive for a long time is ****?
That we change into these caricatures of ourselves
that we make fun of,
dreading the experience
and the life
and the love
that we have yet to discover.
Our skin is the window to our age,
and we have deemed being open,
There is an incredible grace associated with age.
That dance of bones,
fluid yet still,
that only people with years and years of emotions can emulate. Your brain filters out the boring,
and you’re left with what hit hard.
Your first kiss.
Your first heartbreak.
Every line on the skin is a memory waiting to be shared.
The windows around me are steaming with the heat of my breath. The heat of the people around me as their bodies keep them warm. They’re windows into other stories,
lives that I will never fully hear in detail.
We can never relate every single detail of these windows to another.
And sometimes, windows break.
i'm not afraid to get "old." we gain beauty.