Paint me in the colours of your sky
Pink to pale yellow,
Like the orange of my iced tea.
The artist moulds each element of the night into its own clay sculpture. Over time, they begin to crack.
Then out comes the soul, eating its way through to the earthen corpses. And the words form so simply around them, in the halo of their graves, where they sleep; and where I cannot.
Anyway, these are the ones that I own, it’s been some time since I’ve been with yours.
I used to want desperately to bury them away, in sand; preferably white- somehow it always hides best-. Now I walk with them, in slow, stretched leaps. I dance with them, through the grass that pricks me ever so gently. Do you dance too? It’s hard to etch silhouettes in this meadow.
And when our demons are asleep, there is always a morning. It is one they do not see. This is when they are numb. And yet another sun raises its yolky arm.
The land has not come alive, it is all still the same. There's just a little less need for our electricity with every passing second. There is all the light we need.
In the sky today, there are fish. They have long since replaced the birds. I guess they come and go, wrapping themselves in blue and black quilts. I think it is the blankets that keep them afloat; almost allowing them to fall asleep as they fly; almost.
And as the arc reveals itself in the flood of the rain, each animal walks in pairs of two, like a perfectly shattered - or cracked, rather- porcelain creature; tucked away in sheets, under folded clothes of dusty procrastinations.
It looks out through the cabinet glass, silently; pleasantly helpless.
There’s a window somewhere close to it. Funny how things right beside you are the ones you can’t see. It’s simply too much for the head to turn.
I go to this window sometimes, if only to remember its delicate creature holding onto the leash of memory. It casts light through the pane in bulged bars on the skin of my forearm. It is not warm. This I find strange.
At times I interest myself in the colours outside of it. I see a thin brown; a branch; and on it, blue.
It turns red, quickly, like the lace of water gushing down human hands. It is a songbird, bleeding by its head. The blue is pale. Its eyes are hard to trace; like trying to find your pulse.
The bird slowly becomes our veins, flowing down our arms, quickly, consistently. Blue intertwined with red, and then purple.
I wonder if I should pour water over the colours. Maybe the songbird will leave the branch; and the sky will turn pink, and, then, a pale yellow;
Like the orange of my iced tea.