these eyes of mine
not as warm as yours
glancing where they
shouldn't glance
noticing too
many nuances, the
details in the threads
running through you

in your weaving i see

there is azure
for the brilliant purple bursting
from hopeful blue, that is
more than the blue
like love being
more refulgent in the object
rather than that which
feels affection

there is buttery yellow
for family, the infinitesimal crumbs
left by experience
and time; i can taste them
as you speak

there is sanguine red
for sacrifice given once
and would again
seen in the proud anguish
that sometimes darkens
your face

there is ochre
the forgotten natural
that slipped from me
but rose in you

there is viridian
the durable green
always faithful in returning
after the white storm
even though
it seems to never be
coming to cleanse
the broken land

No More-
i cannot stand merely looking
at the differentiating,
dazzling subtleties anymore


the traitor to my
simple existence
is myself
oh, happy betrayal!