The lining of my living room.

Silence strips its finish, 

stillness sours its shine—

Confinement streaks from floorboard to ceiling tile. 


Whose jaundice fingers 

reach between frays?

Nails julienne the air, 

and yellow hangs in etches.


A yellow tongue

laps the stillness,

scratched and gouged and splintered.


Eyes peek from behind the wall. 

Her gaze pities my bondage.

Regard our imprisonment, 

these bars between ourselves. 


She—legs marred by paper restraints.

Me—I can’t unsee.

Together, we lament our separation. 


I could still be golden, 

her eyes seem to say.