Yellowed air conditioner hums a lie

Yellowed air conditioner, hums a lie

of coolness, on that brick wall, high.

My first place. A single room,

a concrete box, a hopeful tomb.

The kitchen floor, that sticky, cheap

linoleum. Secrets it would keep

of spilled coffee, dropped dreams,

a hundred quiet, clumsy schemes.

Through paper walls, the neighbor's TV

murmur, a dull, familiar bee

buzzing in my ear, night after night.

A borrowed life, a borrowed light.

Cardboard boxes, stacked so neat,

held futures that felt bittersweet.

I thought I was so wise, so bold,

a story waiting to unfold.

Just me, and this space, bare and raw,

obeying some unspoken law

of yearning.