Where lies the pane in a window? The frame that holds it and the sill where resting briefly is the dust? The curtains that hide the night, or do they conceal the sins you’ve hung up in chandelier light?
From here you see without touch nor feel, the world without ache or hurt. This is the way it should be-without the pain in pane.
Still you’ve wet the floor. See this blood that drips of shards from your chest? You press yourself too hard against the invisible. Detonate yourself and crawl into beyond! Make your heart burst with its chemical wanting.
When the frost settles and beams of hot breath cannot caress its worries away. When the dust swirls unflinchingly and closes in on the lace.
Then is it no longer a window?