In my room, there is

softness damp with the muted light that bleeds

through the moth-eaten curtains.

Slivers of plastic stuck to the window would cause shards of colour

to dance on the wall, but

the curtains are closed.

I can still see their ghosts vaguely haunting the beige linen.

If I opened the curtains and looked outside,

past the rain stained glass and the plastic slivers,

I would be able to see my neighbour’s fern.

Probably never watered, but still green.