I am in a room with a single window.
Open slightly,
enough to hear the passing of cars,
the swearing of teenagers,
the wind resting on the trees.
I am in this room and I am alone,
alone with specs of the sun on the wooden floor,
glimmering shadows,
books and a picture,
of us—
I am on a chair that will not move,
because I refuse to,
a chair that will always remain exactly what it is,
while I—continue to change,
waiting for some sort of rapture,
longing for some sort of Holy intervention,
or the opening of a door,
or more—
There’s a colorful Croton plant in the window,
perhaps it hears what I hear,
it can see what I see,
feel what I feel,
perhaps it hears the echoes of my depression,
bottled up,
harvesting a lackluster moon which pounds against my rib cages,
taunting the jail room with threats of erupting,
destroying the walls,
bearing solace,
mourning the gravitational pull of a wave,
to save,
myself.
Perhaps it hears nothing,
feels nothing,
hears not even the silence I speak of,
maybe its done growing,
maybe I am too.
The window brings in a cool breeze from time to time,
as time becomes time passed by,
I’m aging and breathing,
the clock never stops for a moment like this,
to smell,
feel,
or see,
—me.
