the slow art of breathing bitter

Purple in Grey

As I walked in the corridor last evening

The air was absurdly cold, unloosening

The knots in my stomach.

The green muffler wrapped around my neck

More tightly. Brown-red flecks

Of last winter dotted with black beads flashed.

The black and yellow spots danced,

Until our eyes briefly glanced

At each other—a surge of adrenaline.

The quiet corridor filled with pounding hearts,

And loud footsteps we both missed hearing in twelve years:

And it felt like a twinkling star in the bronze skyline.

A shot of adrenaline came rushing by,

Seeping into our struggling veins, numbing our thighs—

Yet we stood still, so close yet so far.

I wished I could brush your cheeks

With my cold hands, if only my hands were weak:

You were my porcelain in the evening of grey December.

And the childhood fairy tales stirred in 

The smoldering warmth of the lavender evening:

I wished I could feel you again.

The same smell of pine and rosemary and bliss

From your cardigan; I didn't care who gave you this:

I only cared about this purple moment we lost when we were ten.

And now we stand with pounding hearts and struggling veins,

Leaving aside the doubts and questions—

Letting the suppressed desires fly higher.

And forgetting that we once left each other, 

Forgetting we were twenty-two now, this winter—

We let each other feel the same warmth.

Your cardigan was darker in my sobs,

And my muffler was a little tighter in your increasing pulse.

I didn't care what happened; all we cared about was ourselves.

You held my hand a little firmly:

"Love under the blank sky," sang the trees,

And we walked head in head to home.

The grey December was lavender again—

All red and white and purple:

The little burns on our knuckles remained.

We live, we love, we cry, we lose—

These burns always kiss us better.

Even when a stranger sees things fading, they paint our skies purple.