the ship is sailing

I'm making red lentil soup with cheakpeas.
I'm drinking green tea.
Looking out the window, it is gray, rainy.
For once the english weather cliché is fulfilled.
The turquoise curtains are folded aside, I let all light in which cares to enter my room.
I still haven't read 'To the Lighthouse' it sits on my desk, waiting for me to open it.

Piles of clothes; corn yellow, aubergine purple, indigo blue. Red, my hot water bottle.
White, my sheets, with little tender flowers.
Cables spread across my bed; one's attached to my Laptop, one to my hair dryer, one to my lamp.
The heater rattles. At least it's working.
The dark wooden floor boards stare at me. They have black eyes and scratches on their skin.
I won't drink that water on the table, it looks healthy, but I tell you it's full of poison.
I shall rid my brush off hair.  I shall wash the clothes that are lying on the floor.
T.S. Eliot is what I ought to consume.
I have a silly sense of avoidance.
The pink phone which lies on my sheets, belongs to the girl who was lying beneath them eight weeks ago. I wonder when I'll see her again.
Is anyone in the house? Often a whole day passes me by without me seeing anyone, just to realize by the evening that all of us have sat in their rooms, quiet and invisible like ghosts.
Here sits a ghost who declines a kind invitation to instead keep on rambling here.
I have a silly sense of avoidance.
Look, if you could see now,  the rain drops resting on my window pane, the roofs bearing all the wet fumes coming down at them, the bleak tree standing patiently amidst the cold.
If you could see how green blends in, how much hope there is, how much uncertainty.
If you could see how I wrote 'Hello' onto the glass just for you, and you, whoever you may be.