rhythms of the endless

The wall is wearing away
in the places where she stands
to face it and rubs her palm
along the rough paint.
She does not consider the shades
or the light that sifts
in through the window.

She only paints the sill yellow,
and files her nails,
and marks all the ways she
has loved with chalk
beside the glass.

She will never consider
the consequences of living
behind a curtain.
She never wonders what life
is like on the other side. 

When will we stop longing for the realities we cannot have?
When will she stop loving him for what he is not?