Windowsill

The sound of her breath
billows through the darkness of the room
leaving traces of dreams along the windowsill.

They’re not the dreams of other girls her age
but dreams of lost cities.
They sit trying to escape along the recesses of the cold insulated glass.

The room is free of ghosts now
as I stare up at the ceiling watching her thoughts pass by
waiting for one to finally make it's way out into the cold august night.