resolute

My window,
creaking on its hinges,
moaning its lost company,
yawning no matter how many
funerals they hold for you,
suffering ecstasies in imagining
your sudden appearance,
groaning its longing,
for your face to fill it young,
aching for your fingers
stroking away its pane,
calling for your body swinging
lightly, dusted with pixies,
agonizing for phantom closeness,
and ghost-warmed chills,
the fortress I choose to hold me
begging for captivity in your embrace,
knowing that you are an apparition,
which will do as it likes.
My window,
my goddamn fucking window.
Open.