Hand Print

There is a hand print on my window from a robber, or a ghost, perhaps a person that I know has fallen down the lowest. I sit here looking through it. I am peaceful, unafraid, I watch the snow fall bit by bit to chill a grassy blade. I have, at last, escaped it all, I think I've made it through, I've managed to avoid it all, my bridge, you know, was you. And so the time has come to leave my windowpane at last, snowflakes are whitening my sleeve and I've left you in my past.