The Open Window

A window left open, three floors up, on a building I will not enter. The rain has come and gone. The curtain still remembers. White curtain. Old. The wind moves it the way a hand moves a sheet in a room where someone is sleeping. No one is sleeping. The apartment is empty in the way apartments are empty in the afternoon — not abandoned, only patient. I stand on the corner with my coffee. The curtain lifts, the curtain falls. Whoever left the window open trusted the rain not to find it. The rain found it. The rain did not mind. When the window closes it will be by a hand I do not see.