He approaches,
hands in fists in pockets.

What an ugly creature
skin the color of primer,
a dull white fading into a beige.

Eyes easily read,
text book pages on how his mind,
the cogs and bolts and springs
coincide.

whites and reds and browns,
but that’s not how he sees it.
he recognizes the feel of them
as his eyes brush along the movement

of white, the flow of her gown as she danced
down an isle, ankles braced
while petals spotted her shoulders,
veil draped to hide

to the red, the color of a winter sun
as he sets his chin against the horizon
swallowing everything in color so vivid
it’s impossible to look at,
even when he wants to.

to the brown, smooth
like chocolate coating
his teeth and tongue
with remnants of Easter morning,
a basket of memories
he can no longer hunt for.

He looked right at me,
Saw past my
layers, tendrils, globs
Composing my skin
With a pigment he doesn't
Feel like placing.

He just squints,
crossing arms over chest to close
the path to his heart and mind
He moves on to the one next to me,
A still life he can understand.