Warm November leaves color the breeze and brush the door.
The hallow room whistles to the lonely mattress on the floor.
The emptiness incubates in here, grows on furniture, and creeps up my arms.
A moldy isolation makes memories out of the fungus that bubbles over my white paint.
Over my notebook I draft the hours, cut each minute down to seconds, reclaiming time lost. A hallow tree peers into my window as if it were watching an art exhibit.