Curtains

You hang oblivious, dust encrusted, a foul design job, left over by previous irresponsible occupiers. Hanging limp, like flaked skin, your rail fractured like a soot covered broken spine. When appropriate wipe away tears on your ends, that are soaked into your fabric, and drank with gusto. The cracked windows know you all to well, know your almost smug like presence is really just a cover for the secrets you hold. And for all your time there, tying up the room, you still don't fit the windows.