Window Still

There is no place quite like the window-sill,
Breathing the icy night that creeps around the frame,
Face pressed cold against the senseless pressing pane,
Nocturnal dew tear-dropping at a hair's breadth distant.

Curtains drawn against the questions of a world inside,
Body curled into someone else's shadow,
Starlight teasing at illumination, twinkling
Of an eye unmirrored in its own reflections.

No restless, careless, ceaseless pacing here,
Thoughts tumble in the stillness
But answers are night-bound or house-bound
And not written in my breath upon the glass.