I am alone at the window. Cobwebs do not gather and
dust does not settle, but alone I sit. A car reverses as I
stare; the man inside off to live, to work, to love, to hate and the strife
of life; whilst in my spot I sit, upright. A dog walks past, old and shaggy,
moving as if the world itself had sapped it’s health. Life is
horribly beautiful as I stand vigil and it speeds past at a snails pace,
as I wait, patiently, for the hands of time to tick. Was that the
dress, red and sleek, I used to wear with up-turned hair,
batting off the eyes of men that bored, so enthralled
with beauty, fair and tall.
Did they know then, in those days of past, that it
would not last, and soon the farce of face,
tight arse, would pass and leave the marks of
lonely days and memory lanes that seem now
so much sweeter.
Did she know? She who wore my dress with skin so fair with loose,
flowing hair? Was she aware that soon she would don my same
hide, worn, torn and liver-spot dyed. Her youthful
face would transform in time, to tired eyes and exhausted sighs,
waiting, with downturned eyes for what was surely nigh.
Did she know, in all her beauty, that soon she would sit alone at the
window, face hovering near the glass into youth that had passed,
to a girl, who laughed, with brown hair. Was she aware? Did she care,
that soon she would wonder, quietly, to herself,
whether the girl below would ever know the pain of
wrinkled bags for skin, of memories out of reach, just
by the length of a pin. Would she wonder as she watched, if The
Girls thoughts had ever wandered into her future,
where youth and beauty had been torn asunder. Did she ever think
of the morrow, of her endless sorrow. Did she know that her
youth was only a gift to borrow?
Could we ever grasp, with shaking hands, the fabric of the curtains and
pull them shut, overcoming this endless rut of aged lust when all were
made to hate those we once longed to love and make?
Or would we always stare, sat at the window, at the girl below
in the dress, red and fair, with upturned hair, who did dream of the fallacy of youth,
too short to share, whose eyes never strayed to the bat of the woman who
Always stared, with grey, knotted hair.