Point

The window is dead on this side.
It doesn't have any other side.
The world becomes a wall,
against which I move,
a fly, a thin fated sweep.

The wall approaches me;
the attic and the floor:
flat parallelopipedum,
trampled matchbox and
the pit of Edgar Allan Poe.

You, belovèd, took dimension with you
out of my existence. I am alone.