As lights bleed out I watch my window;
It bleeds as well; Only it is quieter, calmer.
Perhaps it is because my window bleeds dew drops and the lights bleed dust;
It is strange to pour your eyes into a window,
But I enjoy it nonetheless.
I hold the glass pane in my arms; cradling it until it somehow pierces my skin.
I don't really know how it bleeds; but everytime my iris rivers wash over it, there they are; those dew drops.
Perhaps it has been bound by a thread of reflections; Reflections of our own reality, which itself, is yet another one.
I like to think that I am good friends with the window.
We do have quite a bit in common,
After all
We are both malleable beings,
Lovers of the world that close their eyes for the final kiss with cold, white lips as lucid as those bleeding lights.
And yet,
We are tin lovers,
And here the flames have burned for more than all the etched lines on the flakes of my walls;
We melt, and we meld into the glassy ground,
We flow into mirrors with iridescent hues and we tip-toe across the bridge that flies over another being who has long forgotten his cues.
I do not know how the mirror bleeds,
Perhaps it is because my window reflects all that it sees