“Jem!” shivers in the
daylight, caressed in
blue clouds and yellow sunbeams.
He looks up to you with
purple thunderstorms
in his eyes, and
you set down your
harsh orange sunset. It
twinkles into a watery yellow
and you understand that to him,
the sky could be fuschia, so
why couldn’t it be
for you?
Strawberry sorbet pink lit
the skies and danced around
your arms ensnared in a
mother’s warmth one night.
Dark grey, wet and sludge,
like cement, dampened
the horizon upon your
almost bitter leave —
quickly becoming tangerine,
sour, sickly-sweet
when you stayed.
The sky is fuschia now,
as his thunderclouds
calm into white and
pink and purple and
gold and you know that
the sky will be every
color, at any given time.