around. It's pouring down
inside my walls. I paint them bright
red with cherry gloss. But like moss,
I'm flowerless and haven't

roots. I grow in the damp. She left
her stamp on me with the palm
of her hand, burning into my
face. On my back is an imprint

of her shoe, with colors black
and blue. They match the hue
of the midnight sky. The only thing
I own that shines. She died in

her cocoon. She didn't turn into
a flying stained glass of orange
gold. She didn't pass on those colors.
But she did pass.