She insisted on white.
Cool hallways
flowing into airy rooms.
Up, and over ceilings
in a seamless cocoon.
Tall windows, open wide,
curtains billow
also white.
She said this was California
style.
Where she had grown up
unloved
in a haze of sand and sun.
She imagined herself
in this pure space,
a blank slate
in which to compose
a tranquil future.
It would be furnished sparely.
A single bed, a classic chair,
falling water
purrs, somewhere.
Nothing primary, or bold,
in its smooth curves
muted tones.
Where I felt angular, and bright.
To be painted over
re-arranged
stowed away.
White-washed walls
cannot be touched
surreptitiously.
You leave fingerprints,
traces of sweat
remains of skin.
Like a linen dress
in a summer breeze,
sullied
with blood-red wine
you can’t get out.
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