What I Cannot Hold

Someone asked me what color my walls are

and I stood in my living room

completely unable to speak.

I see them every morning. Every single morning.

I wipe the dust from the window sill without looking—

my hand knows the motion, the slight resistance

where the particles stick to the cloth—

but I could not tell you if the wall is blue or gray

or if there's a stain near the corner I've learned

not to see.

The longer I stood there, the less real the room became.

I could describe the dust. I could describe

the way the light comes in at 7 a.m.

I could tell you exactly where the couch is

because I navigate around it in the dark.

But the walls?

I've never really looked at them.

They're the thing I see that I've trained myself not to see,

the background of my own life,

and I cannot hold it in my mind even for a second.