A window could tell you a thousand stories,
Stories that you'd never even think to tell
It'd tell you secrets of the streets,
The quiet rustles that seem to distort themselves
The night briskly fading into a busy morning.
It'd tell you of the lone squirrel scurrying up trees,
It'd tell you of bustling city life, discarded leaves chasing cars.
A sullen person walking, head down, in a rush on the empty sidewalk.
A couple arguing from across the street.
A window could tell a thousand stories.
But who is there to tell the window's story?
Who is there to experience the horrors...(or joys) alongside it?
To many, it may just be a window.
A window that stoically and relentlessly experiences life,
Capturing moments that we effortlessly miss.
If only we were as still a window...
We would hold stories hostage,
We would take in memories and never let go.
We'd wordlessly salute the sullen person walking down the street in a rush,
We would ask them, beg them, to be still, if only for a fleeting moment.