She calls it sunlight trapped midair,
a summery burst on plaster walls.
Her hands gesture like dappled warmth,
pulling gold threads from emptied skies.
I see butter, lathered thick and soft,
curled into the grooves of knives,
sticky on fingertips, slick, excessive—
held hostage to its own decadence.
She doesn\'t notice the weight of it,
how it swirls heavy against the light,
how it stains yellow beneath my nails,
like a crime scene no one remembers.
She hums while painting corners, oblivious,
her brush a pendulum of stubborn hope.
The room closes tighter after each stroke,
each wall sealed in its golden bloom.
I sink beneath its yolk-like halo,
taste the room\'s oily breath,
watch her create warmth where there is heat,
a new language of comfort I can\'t speak.