Circle Window

She went to the attic of herself.
Cobwebs clouding dimly lit lonely light bulb and chain near the opening of the stairs.
Too many times in this room. Dust in corners. The middle of the floor: neglected things, picked through, left out. No care. Like that tiny circle window to the left. Smudged, chipped, old dirt white painted circle window.
A spider softly crawls over layers of yellow weather worn lace.
Damp denseness is sorrow.
A place she goes to forget.
Where things are forgotten.
Where she is forgettable, she sits with spiders and cobweb chandeliers. Silkened wonderland of memories.
The attic. The first place she felt free.