verging on purple
muddled by the technicolor, all i see is bluffs in the red while the truth is molded to a point, the slashes are subtle but truer than a burning tree and louder than a finger linked through another on the precipice of emulating eden
a sun spot is a watered down blemish on my heart, and on everyone else’s too, the world spins past neptune until a hole fills with lonely happiness, the peak of a sunbeam touches to the rolling world, only stops when the mind slips and the tongue slices
as if strength were a first, a second heart isn’t what it used to be, to pull slivers of words and trumpets from an old soul seems like an orchestrated habit but is truly formal, for hearts tend to have foresight pumping through them, not only that, but warmth which fades by the time the second comes around
the sky past my view of space is clouded with suspended songs and harmonies that don’t quite line up, nostalgia simply becomes a hanging wilderness swinging from conservation, not seeing the eyes of the moon leaves the cacophonous feeling of loss, while a king-sized spaceship is the only place where praise is satisfying
the night is sweet and high but i step towards it nonetheless, avoiding a calamity far worse than a sun spot, my name is a simple slice of space that rings out like a siren, it slices through the solidarity of sight, but my first page starts a long time from now
there’s a history through me that sits on a graveyard shelf, on the corner of refuge and a leaf that is too heavy to turn, silence is elusive when laughter becomes strands of yellow and pink and sight doesn’t leave space for another’s palms, because red is the loudest color but it’s the kindest too
strange how things that touch never really know each other.