What the Window Doesn't Hold

The children play

beyond the glass—

I watch them run,

I let them pass.

Their joy is real,

yet out of reach,

a language now

I cannot teach.

This chair, this room,

my world grown small—

the voices fade

along the wall.

They visit less,

they stay so brief.

What fills this house

is only grief.

I used to know

the names they call,

the laughter echoing

down the hall.

Now all I hold

are broken threads—

a wedding ring,

some words half-said.

A photograph

in folded hands—

a man I loved,

a life we planned.

But he is gone,

and I remain,

in silence thick

with phantom pain.

They say, "She’s safe,

she’s warm, she’s fed,"

but don’t they know

I feel half-dead?

No fire burns,

no stories told—

just ticking clocks

and growing cold.

The world moves on

outside my pane,

but I am tethered

to this chain.

I cry at night,

but no one hears—

just shadows curling

into years.

They smile at me

with patient eyes,

but I can see

the thin disguise.

They pity me—

this shell, this frame—

a mother once,

now just a name.

Sometimes I scream

but only inside.

A thousand sorrows

left to hide.

My voice has dimmed,

my spirit worn—

I grieve the self

I can’t return.

And still they play,

outside, carefree—

while I drift farther

out to sea.

I watch and wait

for someone near—

but no one comes.

No one hears.