The window screens the garden
into moth, leaf, gate:
pixels of evening.
My face loads.
Behind it, the gate opens
onto a room
that was never there.
A cup trembles on the sill.
No hand. No call.
Only my reflection,
mouth moving
before mine.
~ Oizys.
Written for dverse's 19th October prompt, Q 258 I Screen, You Screen, We All Screen….