painted windows

the rumbles of distant cars float through the black into my bedroom window

my sheets are still

pillows warm

and the orange light dances the way my grandmother’s did

when I was smaller in a bigger bed

when shadows of dogs and bears and monsters stayed trapped inside the paint

I think I was older then

and maybe I’ll never be that old again

age 6 wrapped in lavender sheets

and putting on concerts for dad

everything is quiet now

any quieter still and I’ll go mad

I feel the way it hugs me tight

snaking its lonely limbs around my torso and my hands and my throat

then a train in the distance

to remind me there is more

somewhere

before it weaves its fingers into my mouth

and my hands and my throat

relax or choke

die trying

breathe

die trying

choke

I feel the weight of being younger now

and I feel the weight of more to come

my baby’s breath dries sweetly on the desk

from Asda or Tescos or mothers womb

I’d keep the curtains open tonight

if the quiet won’t slip out the broken window

bed, warm and still

mattress untouched as I hover above

my shadow puppets don’t look the same anymore

the quiet takes my arms in its own

our hands are warm

perhaps I take up all the space I need

perhaps I’ll take up a little more