WILT BY SARA ABDELBARRY

My walls are seemingly fond of your shadow;

a dead flower atop a desk,

occupying precious real estate but not contributing much.

I’m thinking you need to start paying rent,

cause space here is limited

and you’re an adult now,

even though you hate that word.

You say it makes you feel like you’re withering,

as I sit here and pick the wilted off a stem,

crumbling petals in my hands,

ashes sprinkled across the table.

I’m thinking you should start paying rent,

and that these dried-up roses have outstayed their welcome, too.

But I’m willing to extend,

as I’ve grown fond of the shadows

and a room without them isn’t one I can stand.