Window Washing

I run my fingers down the wood
that once formed the cross of Jesus;
it lines these walls, it keeps the
winter out. Shades of sepia streetlights and
monochrome moonglow have hit the glass and
filtered out into clarity, where shadows
linger on the knots in the wood, where
light accents the coffee colored lines of
age and depreciation.
It's dustless, but still creaks as I
force it open, and with one gust of wind,
your scent flies from where it's been trapped -

between glass and the windowsill.

Your death was only caused by
lack of human life.

I liked the topic and I thought some of the phrases and images you used to describe it were good, but it was too wordy and didn't develop enough. Trying to think through all those unusual words was hard. Also, I wasn't crazy about the introduction of 'you' so late on, or the cement-block-dropping-on-your-head style of the last two stanzas. I'd make it shorter, or simpler, or just easier to read. And while I liked the theme, I didn't think the last two stanzas stuck with it - they were just introduced too late to dominate it, and there was nothing early on that connected back to them on a second reading (at least that I could see). It's a really good idea, I'd just trim it a bit.