Withering Bloom

safe in the shade
after living through many identical days without boredom, I inspected the nearest corner of my room from the perch of my
lukewarm bed.
a crooked table
a plant in pain
a cup of coffee
a carton of oat milk, now empty
the carton must have been tipped over by my long silky curtain,
brought to stir by last night’s wind and open window. I noticed
the liquid still dripping and dripping and dripping down from the
table in long white lines, like a pure white tablecloth reaching
and reaching and reaching the wooden floor soaking it up.