BY JULIE CHEN
If eyes are windows to the soul
then mine must be
ancient. Draped
in vines woven through slits
in the weathered shutters. Rusty hinges, splintered
oak, a rough ledge.
Hung high upon a stone tower. (Marble, I would hope.)
Overlooking the moor, ruffled by
damp wind—
the kind that makes thoughts
slosh in the head.
I would throw my long braid out to you,
whoever you are.
It is quite lonely up here, and
I am confused. Silence
makes me melancholy. Whoever said
Solitude is bliss
has clearly never been
stranded up a tower.
I would throw my braid out to you,
But I've cut it short a week ago at the barbers.
You probably couldn't climb
it anyway.
And who am I kidding
Princes do not look up at dusty windows.
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