Contemplation of a Property of Light
The Definition of Purple
When you walk down the beach, dip your foot in the water, the intersection of the sun and the water blend to create this hue. The evening sun dips low in the sky, the color of day in a decrescendo to the halfway point to night- the darkness superimposed on your surroundings until you feel yourself fade as well. Dim light filtered behind your eyelids, the feeling becomes the color. Passive in the night, the silence humming in your veins, it becomes a tint.
You come home to a lover whose voice blares the color in loud strokes of the shade. You stare at the color under your eye, transferred fist-to-eye, your finger touching it gently even though it hurts. This, too, is a shade. The roll in your stomach, the flutter in your rib cage- this, too, is part of the monochromatic palate. Your split lip heals over, the skin around the scab in the same color, like the promise of healing. It's the color of you trying not to draw too much attention to yourself the next day.
It's the color of 'They didn't really mean it's on your skin when your neighbor brings you flowers. It's the color of the flowers and the color of your arms- and the color of the creases in her brow when she asks if she can call someone for you. When she opens the door to her home and invites you in, the first breath of perfumed air feels like the color, the first stutter of breathable air. She offers grape liquor, but you already feel like you're drowning in this color.
The sunset stains the sky in dramatic contrast- you watch the color in the reflection of your mirror in a different home. It's the color of memory, and you see it when you close your eyes to sleep.
You come home to a lover whose voice blares the color in loud strokes of the shade. You stare at the color under your eye, transferred fist-to-eye, your finger touching it gently even though it hurts. This, too, is a shade. The roll in your stomach, the flutter in your rib cage- this, too, is part of the monochromatic palate. Your split lip heals over, the skin around the scab in the same color, like the promise of healing. It's the color of you trying not to draw too much attention to yourself the next day.
It's the color of 'They didn't really mean it's on your skin when your neighbor brings you flowers. It's the color of the flowers and the color of your arms- and the color of the creases in her brow when she asks if she can call someone for you. When she opens the door to her home and invites you in, the first breath of perfumed air feels like the color, the first stutter of breathable air. She offers grape liquor, but you already feel like you're drowning in this color.
The sunset stains the sky in dramatic contrast- you watch the color in the reflection of your mirror in a different home. It's the color of memory, and you see it when you close your eyes to sleep.