Inner Child

I am painting in a tiny room.

The room is surrounded by glass walls
where I can see outside,
purple and sage green.

I want to paint the life
of blooming flowers
outside
purple and sage green,
no shapes, just energy,
unfinished thin layers.

I search synonyms for Possibility.
Chance. Likelihood. Prospect.
Hope.
Cruel.
So I paint a man
crouching in the tiny room and
leave him there alone,
surrounded by the glass walls.

Adding months of aimless strokes
of thin brushes,
go find your inner child,
my therapist says
give him a hug.
It sounds romantic so I try,
close my eyes
find the shivering child
terrified of slamming doors,
a drunk father collapsed
in the doorway.
I walk closer to the boy when
he sees me, we smile but
he doesn’t know who I am and
I don’t know who he is.

Time has passed or it hasn’t.
The setting of the sun is pink
and the day is over.
Suddenly I feel the boy’s tiny fingers
stroking my nose, first
he came to me, he still doesn’t know.
But the sky is pink and my nose feels
warm so I leave it there.