by elena bianca vargas
i would be a better writer if i could, for two seconds even, imagine the experience of another being. how many windows have i met, and stood gazing, for as many different reasons as moments in a lifetime? she might be thinking aimlessly about the sun that just broke through the clouds after the storm, or studying the small bird that just landed on a perch below, or remembering to return the porcelain platter to her mother, or regretting the purchase of an expensive sweater. but because i am none of those things, she can only be brokenhearted, and thinking singlemindedly of her lost love. how he isn’t coming back no matter how long she stands at the window, no matter how perfect her profile, how ardent her longing. she has no eyes for the actual view, no ears to hear advice that it’s time to leave the window ledge, to stop waiting, to step out of the shadow, and into the sun.