These white walls will not illuminate me
even as the sun gleams off the marble tiles,
the room lifts and leaves me in shade.
I sit with folded arms
on the windowsill watching as the dappled sun
plays on the pink orchid tree only to blossom
during Florida winters. The balmy breeze tickles
the leaves, trembling like my feeble knees
failing to hold me. The air conditioner pumping out
heat is the only sound in this muted space.
Since he left years ago,
the branches have reached above my second story
apartment, brimming with lime green
and speckles of pink. My body blends into the
walls and I fear I may never see past these sheer,
downcast drapes, or touch the supple leaves that grow
more luster with age while my hands
become pale and palsy. I may be forever
plastered in white paint.
