out here, in the city, you can't see the stars because they bleed into the ink black canvas that is
the sky.
it's an imperfect black, a sickly pitch, with urban luster blotting out the deepest tones of indigo, scraping on orange luminescence around the edges of the sky canvas like God's pallet knife is rusty.
yet the sepia color is so much richer down below, confined in blazing streetlamps that flicker gold, in winking street signs- emerald, agate, rubies, precious gems in dented black boxes- and violet parlor advertisements that spray violent luminescence across the sidewalk.
it's beautiful in a lonely sort of way; I think the rainbow got a little tilted when humans tugged it from God's quiver.
isn't it strange?
how the most beautiful things can burn so brightly and bl o t out
the subtle radiance all around them?
how the artificial can seem so much more real than the stars shining overhead- invisible, forgotten diamonds- because it burns just a bit brighter, shines just a little farther?
oh; the sun is coming up.