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The Color June

June air. Always tired and worn thin. As thin as the earth beneath us, as the sheets between us, as thin as the red slipping around inside fathers. It licks our skin passion fruit, having been left sickly white like recent sky, and suddenly warmth leaks from paints above us, loaning the mesquite some color. Cognizant, costly color.

Yellow, like Time.
Orange, like Love.
Red, like Men.

June paints us up and down, calls us west, deems us brown, pulls us nearer the end.
That toothsome, green end.





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