The clouds have made their way into my room,
from sky blue boards that shield the bones of my house,
only to rain.
Soon, the carpet will mold,
and the turquoise of my room will peel away
like the bark on the dying oak tree in my neighbor’s backyard, just above the broken fence.
But today,
all I am left with is the pale yellow of tomorrow,
and the roots that will never grow from dried dead roses;
kept in bundles on my windowsill.