The sunlight spills into

my purposefully yellow apartment.

 

I’ve found forever closed tight

in a box

on the top of a closet shelf

and I let it sit.

 

So what if all the plants aren’t real,

some of them

offer more than fresh air.

 

the mod arm chair

the blue settee

the white rugs

glossy mirrors

a Picasso

a Claude Monet.

 

Pop band shirt on

no pants just sock

indie rock on speakers

from a man

I once knew.

 

Candle-dripped

chandelier

centerstage,

from that thrift shop

on a lonely afternoon

in the rain.

 

All is quiet–

still.

 

Notebooks pile

west-facing desk

proud bookshelves

books skimmed

thumbed

maybe read

five rooms

and the entryway

kitchen under-used

corner chair sunken

the bedroom,

a clouded fortress

I wrap myself up in.

 

Rent is going up

please don’t make me

leave

I’ve only just begun

to appreciate

the little things.

 

The yellows in my apartment

(brightness in my heart)

white rugs and sheer curtains

– reminding me –

I moved my life

through the snow

arranged the few possessions

and said,

I’m home.

 

 

 

 

 

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