• The color of my memories,
    Everyone else's
    Eyes seeping in.
    They know what I mean
    But in a way that only they know.
    It's hard to miss someone,
    To be somewhere you could find
    A familiar strand of hair
    Hooked to the chairback
    But you won't,
    You never will.
    The color of books in my bed,
    Wet and long and out of use;
    The intent to read
    As soggy and unloved as the words.
    Sometimes you scream in the pages,
    Scream under the covers
    Waiting for someone to
    Be your hand
    Or guide your hand.
    The color of a long strain of lyrics,
    A voice that doesn't sound like any other you've ever heard,
    Neutral and coated with rust.