The Map Above the Pillow

It started as a shadow in the corner,

a bruise the color of weak, milky tea.

Now it’s grown a jagged, yellow crust

that mimics the coast of a country I’ll never visit.

The rain last night was a frantic tapping,

reminding me that the roof is only a suggestion.

White paint flakes off in dry, brittle scales,

landing on the sheets like a winter I didn't ask for.

I lie here and trace the tide lines with my eyes,

watching the house give up, inch by inch,

until the sky decides to come all the way through.