Monday, June 16, 2014


My skin you said turns
buttercup kisses
each morning with the gulps
of poison to live
My hair is already cupped in butter
shiny yellow oils, and you
a caress of an artist
it is the palette of your paintings
that seeps onto my thinning,
breaking hairs ranging from red to grey
Raging from waves to thunder.
My eyes are the normal brown
They don't change from the common norm,
I scan you walking towards my pillows
with the basics: water, bread and a smile
My hands lean onto yours
my arms are shaded spots
little stamps and untraceable dots
in all the imagined stains possible
My arms can still hold us before I break
Now I shall not crave difference
or uniqueness
or a mixture of all the other shades
I am too yellow, I know
I am stiff,
 brownness is my only option now
to round, like a thick, hot bread loaf
to simmer like a bag of tea
that's the gradation of the shade of yellow
I am allowed before
eroding into air.
I am  to become all degrees of the rainbow
other than a primary color
I have already swallowed the sun
for today,
And it trails on my tongue
with sunburns.
Yet we meet at the primaries, every morning
You at your blue and me at my buttercup:
Yellow is a mutual foreground for anrything.

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