There is a man cut in half by a window

by Serenity Brown

                   There is a man cut in half by a window. It is my window but he is not my man. I do not know this man. I knew his dead half. A half long forgotten in the land of our youth. The man bleeding out on my windowsill, cut in half by my window pane, is not my man. He was the man of my other half. Now dead. She sailed away on a ripped kite, by way of the gutter, down the road hopefully to the park where she had met the ghost of this dying, or maybe now dead, man. I hope she’s happy. More happy than I am as I stare at my shattered flower pot doused in the blood of a man whose ghost knew mine. My window did not prepare herself to be a murderer on this day. No, no. She prepared herself to have her shoes fixed and refitted. She had gone without shoes for too long and her sharp nailed feet were becoming too cold and wet from the weather outside. She wanted to be able to touch her windowsill again and thought that the only way to do that was to get her shoes back. Apparently, that wasn’t the only way. The man, that is not mine, and never was hers, has seemingly fixed her problem. Yes, now she is coated with a new liquid that is not the clear rain she enjoyed on evenings like this. And yes, she would have wanted her little flower pot to come to no harm. And yes, her shoes are still not there to keep her feet nice and warm. But this man has reunited her, due to his half sliced body, with her windowsill. So she is happy. I know she’s happy. More happy than I am as I stand here wondering what I’m going to do about this not-my-man who is beginning to look less and less like a man. If I were to leave him here, he would begin to smell. I would not like that. I don’t think my window would like that either. But for now, she is happy. I guess I can be happy with that.