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.