Pothos

is the Greek word for longing, and I fall into the sun-
bleached trail of leaves spilling from my windowsill.
the flat-faced leaves of the pothos are heart-shaped
and poisonous—they turn toward the sun and press
against cool glass like a lover’s cheek. my air conditioner
weeps water onto its tendrils as it floats and swings
from the curtain rod. I want to say I am in a permanent
state of longing. of reaching from inside to what’s
out in the pink-hued warmth of my street. I turn towards
heat, hoping it holds my name in the wind. the plants shed
their old leaves, yellow softness turning brown at the edge,
curling away from the stem. little blades. they have
such beautiful names: satin, golden, queen, neon,
Cebu blue, jade, snow, pearl. the roots run tight
and deep—I over-water and clip the dead and stretch
the growth across my ceiling—like bright and thirsty veins.

Header photograph by Larena Nellies-Ortiz.