Flood

Primer cakes on my hands, plasters across my knuckles and dips its dried flakes beneath my nails. Somewhere underneath the paint-layers rests a Silence--like the hush just after I've lifted the brush from the wall. This

Silence

stretches between the bristles, in the wake of the droplets that escape to the ground and across my toes and into my hair. The primer--white like the stillness and bright like its Silence--glows in the growing twilight that peers through the window and into the room as I wipe a smear across my face. 

Is that a glob of paint trickling across my cheek? Or is the trail clear? A ( tear ) mixes with

Primer

like the Silence of new beginnings. The walls glow with Beginning. These walls, a previously dark hunter green, 

die

to their former life. And are resurrected in:

white Primer.

---

Shhhh, whisper the bristles against the wall, shhhh, again. 

A pause. 

shhh ... down ... shh ... up ... shhhhh ... down.