I sit on my bed and marinate in the sounds that drench and send pulses through the folds of my mushy brain and cleans them by picking and scrubbing and polishing the crevices and cracks, including the hard-to-reach spots. My eyelids slide over my eyes each time I fill my lungs with thick air. When they open, they drape lazily like a sagging dishrag.
But even though my chin sinks into my chest, my hands start and stop writing to the bitter and sweet and sad voice that conducts my body, that sucks heavy doubt out of pores, that leaves no room for the squeezing and slithering stealthy sorrowful worms that squirm and cling to my clothes.
Yellow is the color I imagine when my ears drink up the symphony and soak me from head-to-toe and I absorb it easily like a paper towel. Yellow is the color that liquifies the slimy insides of the worms and allows bean sprouts to peek their heads through my blanket with its musical fertilizer.
I breathe out my last gray breath and fill my nostrils with fragrances of sweet seedlings and my eyelids are tugged shut, working in unison with the soft tune.