Windows Learn to Breathe

Windows Learn to Breathe

I woke to glass that held its fog, a quiet, milky sheath—

as if the night forgot to leave, as if the walls had teeth.

I pressed my palm against the pane; it borrowed all my heat,

then gave it back in trembling rings that pulsed with a softer beat.

A hairline crack of daylight slid, a silver, patient seethe;

The room exhaled a tired hush—my windows learned to breathe.

The ivy on the sill leaned in, its little lungs undone;

Each leaf became a green reply to what the dark had spun.

I lifted the latch and let the air unbutton stitched-up grief;

The curtains billowed like a chest relearning simple belief.

Your mug still kept a ghost of steam, a memory of teeth—

I watched it fade from hard to kind, from yes to underneath.

Outside, the sparrows counted crumbs; the roofs rehearsed relief;

The city rinsed its careful bones and found the street beneath.

I named the heavier thoughts I’d lugged, then set them on the eave,

and felt them lighten into wind—permission to reprieve.

The window took a steadier breath; the glass forgot to wreathe;

I stood inside the moving day and stepped out of the sheath.

If love returns, I’ll show it this: a room that doesn’t seethe,

a latch that knows the open way, a heart that learned to breathe.