Third floor

I drove by the old block today,

the place I used to know so well.

And there it was, the usual way,

the third-floor window, casting its spell.

That cracked pane, a spider's web,

showed fire escapes in rain's soft blur.

I'd rest my forehead, take a breath,

and watch the world I wasn't her.

Now light spills out, a yellow square,

on streets I barely recognize.

The smudge mark's gone, I wasn't there,

just a stranger with familiar eyes.