Mine is really the window beside me
its screen a mess of scribbling
blotching out the night
and day.
But I can see the moon anyway
as she slides across the wire mesh.
We both collect dust on our empty shelves.

We used to scale walls
and buidlings,
the two of us,
light and shadow,
coming together
like vigilantes in the night.
I could’ve showed you my practiced flight,
traced the constellations in the sky,
and found the star that represents me.

I could have narrowed in on every intricate detail,
as the earth fell back, shaped and reshaped my existence.
Instead I stepped aside and watched its mantle
come crashing to a million pieces,
sending my days into disarray, with my head hung low, searching,
salvaging, and re-arranging each splinter of glass
with no guiding picture-
as I piece the world back together the way I think it should be.