This room empty,
still folds a language of dots & moisture
holding a voice inside, holding a crescent of love inside.
It has triangular edges, sulking the memories inside.
A bohemian palm doused in laughter.
I linger here and there,
near the corner pale yellow table,
above the square corner of files, soiled poetry.
This room, a woman who is pregnant with all seasons.
Slipping through the comatose screams,
ink spilled on the salmon rug,
A sallow-skinned tear somewhere lost.
a shark shifting in the space.
An array of strange emotions exists on this bedsheet,
my eye of pastel sleep,
I expand a blurb of my mind all across this room,
noises as an arc,
the room is bleached now,
the stains like a parchment.
Things sit like a memory in our body of verbose light,
peeled, light as a foam.