Painted purple skies,
like smooshed berries, are
the night stained in their juice,
fading in color and sweetness.
But the sweetest of them all, that’s blue.
That’s up above me, and you
holding our stars and the birds.
Although it’s a disappearing sight
and a drag of our necks upward
toward vanishing brightness,
that’s where you find the purest fruit.
Shooting through to dark
and falling down with the sun.
Always mixed in color and taste;
often less sweet with only traces.
But those traces carry through
and bleeds into the next dying day.
And it’s no matter the taste or temperature
we are always caught drinking it down,
glimmering specs slip through;
it’s worth the dying:
a taste I’ve acquired from you.
PG
