Window Sill

Stubborn smog; creeping on my window sill; billow, thicken, stay unclear. Drip your lazy finger tips across the plain, cracked wood. Dispense ever so slightly, your molding breath, canvasing tenderness with your teasing mouth. Harden as you try to pass through listless glass; glass that has been viewed upon by so many others, feeling like a whore without a single ounce of payment; for she has been spread to be displayed without her authority. Her only friend is the visiting salamander, that surprises her with a needed massage. He speaks to her of his travel of the broken floor; a floor that has been trampled on by other many travelers, that do not bide their time by watching their heavy steps. The smog tires of their conversation and let's himself obliterate slowly, but knowingly. He speaks to the glass held by the window sill, on how she will never be free, that she should be hopeful to see the many passing things. Hopeful that many creatures crawl upon her face and rest upon her body, hopeful that he will not come everyday to blur her visions of the world, hopeful that one day, she will be graced with death; from someone breaking her gaze...