Coloring You

Funny, the decisions we can make

when we aren’t making decisions:

chartreuse charlatans dancing across fresh stages

cannot combat uncomfortable realities with

their theoretical bathtub myths.

 

Aquamarine quality time sitting astride the mare of the day,

fresh plum wine comes pumping up from nowhere and

we feast on the fragrant remains of this cobalt catastrophe.

 

Sunset comes so unexpectedly to weary eyes.

And in it can be seen such perfect purples

and indignantly precise indigos that I weep.

 

I weep in remembrance of the saffron sleep

I slept as you curled up beside me.

 

Your breath, the smell of your skin on my tongue

and tepid waters of significance we seem to swim in

congeal, almost jokingly, in a cosmic scene

fit only for alizarin Ajax and Tecmessa.

 

My moroseness is not any more than it ought to be

given the utter importance of my impotence of now.

Your milky back camber yearning, urging me on.

Guidance now is given only to the godless submissive.