at the windowsill

[imprismed_light]

the space behind you meanders
into shadow. your hands scrabble
at the glass for purchase. chilled fingers
clutching, moth-like, a frozen
flutter. where there's light there's warmth.
sunny climes. playgrounds at midnight. wildflowers
chattering nonsensical rhymes. people who love.
the great poems you might have composed
if you lived on the other side. if you were light.
you sink backward, weak with envy, sick with the beauty
of someone else's space, warm, lit and well-loved.
hands splayed against the stone, unfeeling at first,
then the sharp of the cold. then the scratches and grooves
of your rough edges. then the comfort of a substance
so unyielding it made you stand
when you could have fallen. then the grief
for lives led and lives unknown and lives only glimpsed,
warm, breaking in waves, part of a darkness so intricate
as to approach beauty. this is who you are,
an empty stone chamber
breathing slow and painfully,
turning sorrow to a sort of bright joy,
a room you love for its poetry
and silent rage
and exultation.