The Greenhouse

I’m scrolling through my gallery, slowly going back in time. There are only pictures here, no words; at least, none that you can see. Though I suppose I have them all memorised anyway.

My music seems to go back in time as well. I feel myself seeping into the fabric of the bed I’d lie in, two, three years ago? It gets harder to remember. It’s like I never moved.

I used to lie here, aimlessly, just to stare at the ceiling; though I suppose that is an aim, in its own way.

Light follows my foot closely, as I approach my table, wraps itself around my leg, and I’m back here; in the greenhouse.

It is not my home -it has no door- but it still is something.

Sometimes I walk backwards; just to see if I can. There is nothing physical here. There are windows; ones with rusty bolts. I have never tried to open them, for fear of the iron.

There used to be plants here, perhaps that is why I called it the greenhouse. It is hard to remember. I had them learned, like gallery words. I don’t quite know what happened to them; maybe they died.

They were shy of me, the leaves; hunched-up, like closed wings. The wings were always dry though, in my head.

My skin is shy of me too, it convulses in sudden tremors when my eyes wash over it. Then again, I haven’t seen it in a long time. It’s hard to remember.

The greenhouse has latched itself to the calf of an undertow; or atleast I like to think so. They merge to form the irises that bleed honey, sitting cosily in the space they have made within my eyes.

The wind in here stretches over me, now, like the fabric of a balloon. It swims around my head, taking me to the current outside.

It dances, slowly, in circles around my shin; bringing words out of my mouth.

I stay still, and silent, anyway. Like real people do

-jhinuk

#greenhouse #realpoeple #thegreenhouse