I peek into the home through my old window. It is not mine anymore. Dusty and abandoned, long since forgotten, just like you forgot about me.
The room is dark, nobody lives in that old house any longer, nobody is left to turn on my light, or to clean the dust from my desk.
No one there to read your letters hidden in the drawers.
The wicker chair, the one you bought in an outburst of creativity, promising you'd sit on it to write beautiful love letters, can still be seen from the window.
But the children who play on the streets are too entertained by their worlds filled with cowboys and astronauts to notice it.
You never let me close my window during the summertime: Said the fresh air was good for me... good for my health. Now there is no one left to open it.
I can almost see you standing there, adoring the mid-afternoon sun that illuminated our balcony, letting the wind caress the walls.
I walk again through the streets of the neighborhood that once was our world, and I don't see you, I don't find you.
You are not there, I know you aren't: You left long ago, and now my window is forever sealed.
How can I still wish to see you if I was the one who left?
How can I ask you to let the sun enter our home if we fell asleep under its warmth...
and when you tried to wake up, you suddenly realized I'd never open my eyes again?