Empty water bottles sit on my nightstand,
having chugged them last night to hit my gallon-a-day mark.
A vine of purple flowers, ten years old, finally hangs above my bedroom door,
a thin canopy of color against the white walls.
A salt lamp and moon vase diffuser inactive on the table beside my bed,
surrounded by reminders of my life in New York City.
I can still smell the lavender that always travels with me.
Sitting on my bed, a cloud in my room,
the first bed I’ve ever owned.
Rolled it out of a box and watched it rise.
Purple, grey, and green fill my space,
the only space I have.
But it is not home.