Net Curtains

Our eyes shy away from the watchers amid the nets. In an empty apartment, the gossamer gloom of old lace, back-lit by a spectral light. Faces long gone from empty rooms, scan hollow-eyed each passer-by. Every dim dawn and dusk, a forgotten face peers through them. The stars are silent. The net curtains watch and will not tell, but now in the gleaming, all eyes lower, as dusk settles upon netted fenestella. How do you know this? You remember passing by, and walking in – don’t you?