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You whisper to her in shades of indigo --
But only after Moon's rise.
Perhaps you live in the convolution
Of the tangled bed sheets,
Or in the bristles of her hairbrush.
You sing to her in orange nuances --
But only when the ground is drenched,
Your melodies burrowing in the mud,
Making vibrations in the puddles
And resting among the cumulonimbi.
You write to her in golden ink --
But only under weighted lashes
Of girls in blue-laced nightgowns.
The metallic scrawling is fleeting,
Hiding behind the branches of her slumbers.
She dances for you in monochromatic plies --
But only after bedtime prayers.
Cloth whirls around her hipbones
As she pirouettes on tip-toed feet,
Fantasies of blue-laced tutus.
She has your eyes, you know.
Clusters of grey and silver --
Void of color.
So unlike her runaway father.