Only the empty glass sat there now,
the rim lined with grains of salt.
How long has the windowsill been so empty?
No more strands of hair linger
on the desk where papers were scattered,
the moon illuminating them in a silver glow.

When will the moon go down?
When will the glass be put away?
When will the desk have someone there?
When will the salt be brushed from the rim?
When will someone lay their head down, hair
spreading on the dusty windowsill?

Birds no longer rest on the windowsill.
So abandoned, the moon trying to shy away,
longing for a hair to soak its rays in.
The foggy glass outside cracks down the middle,
salt from the ocean swept away in a light breeze.
Won’t that harm the desk?

Soon they will come to take the desk away,
prying it from the already lonely windowsill.
Because it can’t cry, will salt simply pour from the drawers?
Will the harsh moon laugh at its expense,
when someone peers through the glass to see it’s gone,
their hair clutching their shoulders in fear?

Not even that woman with tumbling ebony hair
can save the desk from its impending doom.
“Wait!” she cries, hands leaving stains on the glass
while she tries to climb in through the windowsill.
Staring on, the moon knows of her sorrows,
hydrated salt trickling down her cheeks.

Salty is how the blood tastes,
the woman notes while running a hand through her hair,
reflecting in her eyes the moon.
The desk will be destroyed now,
no longer waiting peacefully by the windowsill,
not able to look beyond the glass.

A heart made of glass and salt,
her hair touches the windowsill while she sits upon it,
knowing the desk and its secrets belong only to the moon.