I’m a clear glass house on a hill, And I’ll fall in love with whoever of you can see me. I’m in love with you all.
The windows become chipped and shattered from rocks which ricocheted. I’m not sure if I threw stones.
I’m crying, and the windows are fogging up. The air is humid, misty, clammy. I’d like for you to see me now, because the air is chill. I’d like to be clear and radiant outwards, rather than dissolving in, deserted and dark; where once the hill felt elevated, it now stands lonely.
Until the sun rises again, evaporates the condensation in patches until the air is dry. Until a gentle wind rustles from the ground cover up, even if its still a little desolate, new sprigs will spring. Eventually, inevitably.