Poem: The Pane of Love

I have a love window, not a door.
I am longing, but closed off.
I want, but I don’t allow.
I am a contradiction—
a window that longs to be a door.

My pane croaks in the wind,
but does not falter; there is no give.
My glass is crystal, with a view for miles.
Look, but don’t touch. Dare not.

Behind this window, I am safe.
Behind the door lies betrayal—
the chance for falsities,
a handle that turns,
a letterbox that allows
small gestures through—
a parcel tick, tick, ticking.

My window is two stories
high above the door.
From here, I watch in awe:
gentle looks and tender kisses,
a hand held from a mile away.

And yet I wonder,
do they not falter
with nervous sweat?
Mine own here are dry and coarse,
interlinked and alone.
They only reach each other,
for there is no handle on my window.

My finger traces a raindrop
as it trickles down the glass.
Or is it my cheek?