walls

I look at walls.

I consider their space, the way I fit inside them,

or don't,

the door shivering in the slight breeze.

A wall is a containment or a comfort,

a place to be, or not be;

a place to mold each other into a home,

or a cage.

Sometimes the walls are blank,

sometimes full of art;

usually, it doesn't matter:

the same sick beige insinuates itself through the room,

like you're choking against color.

Doors are choices. Doors have handles, and agency;

choices.

They swing back and forth, open and close,

always waiting to be changed.

Walls keep track of things. The smears on the walls,

the art or the emptiness,

the shape of my hand splayed over my head,

the shadow of sputtering lights,

the art of emptiness.