Literature
Windowpane
I gaze out an open window,
very quiet,
completely still.
I hope to catch a glimpse of people
actually living
the way they do sometimes
when they think no one is there.
In my room hang useless pictures:
Photographs of family
and forgotten friends,
a constant reminder
of all the stupid, pointless places
I’ve been.
Everything feels paused,
caught in some absurd
freeze‑frame moment.
And now I’m supposed to believe
we had a life back then
A warm and beautiful
life worth remembering
But the truth keeps whispering
from the corners of this room:
Whatever we were
has already rotted away
long ago.
The photographs stare back
with hollow eyes,
waiting for me to admit
I don’t belong in any of them.
Some of it has already
faded away.
The photos look back at
me like they know I do not
belong with them and that
part feels agonizingly painful.
I stay here watching other lives
happen while mine just keeps
breaking down little by little
behind me.
Like rooms dissolving
inside an abandoned
