I am a Window.

The lights are all out; the shelves are all bare. Gray clouds of dust have begun to glide to my innermost surface, compliments of the frostbitten fan across from me; its blades bid me a final farewell. My baker has left me to be with another. Her glass is of plexi, her paintings are bright. Tomorrow they’ll bring her. Tomorrow I’ll go. That child with the rock wasn't hungry at all. I ache where he threw it, worse now then before. I was a window. The bakery’s window. The baker has left me. What good am I now?