You stood at the window so often.

One hand pressed against the glass,

the creases of your fingers

imprinting themselves

upon the layers of dust

that made it so hard for you

to keep watch for the one

who would never come –

who loved you most –

who you did not know

would never come

until the dust on the glass

grew so thick

you couldn’t see at all –

on that day

you pulled yourself back

leaving all your hope

in a hand print.