lavender from a paris souvenir shop resting
on an empty windowsill facing east

yet the large remainder of the room
has the faint scent of a damp towel

on the door’s back. piles of worn clothes
gathering wrinkles on the teal, maroon,

indigo striped comforter. reminders to use
the chestnut drawers beneath the bed and

the bed itself. a plastic fan just whiter than the
sheets and four walls surrounding it always

plugged in, ready to drown any sounds
in its own white noise, push dusty air

from vents collecting the days
in tiny gray particles. the room

collecting the months in stubs and
fingerprints on eggshell walls.

I cough now and then, never thinking
to better the little things in my daily life.

Haley Winkle is a 21 year-old University of Michigan senior studying Creative Writing & Literature. She is from Kalamazoo, Michigan. Like her cats, she loves food more than most things and doesn’t really have a life plan.