She says the yellow paint feels summery,
like lemonade in sunlight, sticky-sweet
and cheerful as fresh daisies in bloom.
I tilt my head, catch the glossy sheen,
but all I can think of is butter—
thick, heavy, cloying as melted margarine
pooling on forgotten kitchen counters.
This room has always favored arguments,
its corners alive with the echo of
too many \"I\'m fines\" and \"not nows.\"
We pick shades like apologies,
coat the walls like forgiveness might
sink into the plaster. We choose yellow
because it feels like trying,
because it masks last winter’s shadows.
She steps back, squints at her work,
says it looks warm, inviting, \"right.\"
I nod, but feel a slow, sinking churn—
its brightness pressing, smothering,
like warm hands that hold too tight.
In her yellow, she sees an open field;
in mine, a heavy yawn of butter.