I sit at the foot of my bed,
painting my walls with what seems beautiful—

stroke after stroke of thick acrylic paint
red, orange, blue, green, purple,
swirling like the night sky
through lonely eyes.

We’ve all been homesick
at one time or another
for somewhere we’ve never been.

Papers line the floor—
bills, chain letters, a postcard from Italy
with flower boxes and porticos and colored houses
pretty and faded.

You’re knocking even still—
knocking
still.

I open the door
just to tell you—
“You’ve got the wrong girl.”

(About time, you whisper)
and smile.

You flood my house with light
and suddenly there is no paint.
There are no walls.