Recorded by the author at The Mark Twain House & Museum, July 22, 2025
The air is a petal, hushed and pale,
on wallpaper the shades of sighs,
rose milk and powdered blush,
the color of a thought just beginning.
A chandelier drips peach light
onto a seashell-puce settee,
velvet worn like whispered secrets,
pressed into cushions, forever soft.
Ivory keys like sea foam,
the piano hums softly.
Girls press conch shells to ears,
whispering ocean secrets.
Pastel shadows curl at the baseboards,
dusting the floor like a ballet slipper fog.
The mirror frames a rosé reflection,
dream-tinted and sugar-spun.
Chairs like candied-almonds sit in stillness,
ivory limbs dipped in blush enamel.
Long curtains spill beige on the floor,
light filtering in like diluted perfume.
Every object breathes gentleness,
peony wallpaper, pearl lamp glow,
a world washed in soft water hues
where time floats, weightless, in mauve.
Even dust glimmer with rose quartz,
and every breath feels like satin.
In this room, nothing can shout.
The silence is tinted tulip and shell.