One day I will watch this sky turn blood orange but right now turmeric stains my fingernails. It is March in Old Town and this makeshift mattress cradles me solemn. Today I wake up when the sun hiccups in its armor, unabandoned in its confines. I think I want to harvest heat, like when I crave what I cannot give. Instead my fingers unfurl their empty offerings. Today I learn that some tree farmers never live to see their crop grow fully. The pond cyprus outlives the jacaranda, the jacaranda outlives us all. Today Stevie teaches me how to make turmeric powder in the ambered kitchen. Her hands mother the root. I want my hands to waltz with hers. She sketches legs on my legs, suns on my ribs. I am only passing through Old Town, after all, but I want her ink to stain my skin the way I know she intended.