The vase in the corner holds a dying rose.

It stares at me while I sit and write.

The walls close in on me, “give me some space!”

The ceiling caves in, the lights, fluorescent,

Burning my eyes like the bright orange kayak

In the garage, bleached by sunlight.

I like the light.

It’s reflection off the rose.

Gold rivets surround the seat of my kayak.

They smile at me as I sit and write.

As does the glow of the fluorescent

Stars in space.

Space,

So bright in the absence of light.

The fluorescence

Of the rose-

Shaped caterpillar of which I write.

Smoothly across the nectar glides the kayak.

Across the never-ending lake I kayak.

If I keep paddling I’ll end up in space.

But then I’ll have a journey to write.

But then again there is no light.

Slowly dying, is the rose.

Not as vibrant, less fluorescent.

The budding rose has lost its fluorescence.

They’re not meant to grow on kayaks.

The petals fly off the rose.

They float and float into space,

To the left and to the right.

And here I am, as I write.

The fluorescent

Light

As bright as the fading kayak.

As I paddle and paddle, into space.

Further and further from the rose.

The light goes dim as I write,

And the rose becomes less fluorescent

As I kayak deeper into space.