There are at times, the good nights—
where there’s felt the softness of lilacs,
their color deciding to fill up the morning sky.
There are blossomed animals, soft and dreary-eyed,
I witness them from the window of my room,
the glass felt more like a clear. heavy water.
The pane carefully placed above my writing desk—
as though it was the most important piece
that the architect painstakingly sketched.
The desk itself a dark cherry wood, creaking
as it’s burdensome figure presses against the floor.
Only a quilted bedframe sits beside the lectern table,
the place where I can. at times, slumber peacefully.
And when I manage, this scene plays itself back,
on repeat, as I feel the softness of lilacs once again.