There's a window that breathes
in the needled light and sews it
into a blended cast of golden silk,
draping me with royalty.

There's a window at night that breathes
in the images of midnight suns
so I can admire their aged, solar flairs;
I imagine the sky a black market,
where you can pay the price
for the outdated, nonexistent stars,
the way we often pay the price
for memories
in the back of our minds.

There's an insomniac window that breathes,
all throughout seasons good and bad,
where I can look up to the skylight
and interpret only that sliver of the universe,
enough so that it doesn't become a
judgement.