all these panes


I have shaped with my flimsy fingers so many metaphors 
about you but lately the one that seems to hold
true the most is this: your love is a closed window, and 
I am throwing pebbles at it wishing you would crack 
it open, just an inch or two, let the same shy breeze 
that kisses my jaw travel toward your pale, tired face. 
know that when you say your life has been difficult, 
you mean it. I know you have drawn the curtains for 
so many others before me; I know the ones you let 
your hair down for were far from ready to climb to where 
you are. Your heart has gotten used to recycled air, 
seasoned with disappointment and a steady humming 
fear. But listen: your love is a closed window, and 
I am throwing pebbles at it wishing you would break
the promise you made to yourself that you would never
take a chance on another stranger who calls your 
name as if it were salvation, rest, a sliver of buttery peace 
in an empty house that has yet to feel like home.