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  • Writer's pictureEmily Heilman

Watercolor Dust

Updated: Sep 19, 2023

—fell asleep inside a sunlit room;

when I woke, it was too dark to leave.

—stood and walked, bleary eyed, felt

my hand along the wall for the

switch to my brain.

—flicked on a false and yellow light,

a sycophantic gesture to nocturnal minds,

as I, arrogant, made day the night.

—went to make coffee for the moonrise and

saw there was only decaf. Made a note. Then,

—crossed last week off the calendar. Circled

a reminder from last Tuesday.

—sat in the wicker chair on the front porch, ruminated

on the obligations that muddle my artistic hopes.

—enslaved by whims of inspiration, I

could not make a virtue the habit of creation. And still,

—falling behind in everything else,

—went back to watercolor dust and poetry,

burdens soothed by the hum of night,

poured out enough heart to thin

the blood on my sleeve

pale pink, and delicate, just enough to prove I lived.

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