Beige

She said it's just been sitting there

and I heard the just—

the way you hear a word

after it's already gone past.

Four minutes, the whole call.

She's painting it. Not asking.

The room where I slept

for sixteen years, the ceiling

still has those glow-in-the-dark stars

I pressed up there at nine—

faded to cream now, she said,

not visible in the daytime.

I didn't arrange them

into any real constellation.

I just reached as high as I could

and pressed each one flat.

She said she'll use a primer first.