The sky bruises at the edges violet veins bursting through the silence like old wounds speaking. Not blood, but memory spilled across the firmament.
Distance is a color, you just never noticed. It hums in plum shadows on her cheek, in amethyst regrets curled in the corners of old letters, in the sigh of a cigarette smoke ghosting toward someone who isn't there.
Color makes the world turn not gravity, not time, but the way rust stains a prayer on an iron gate, how saffron screams from a monk’s robe while the lavender dusk swallows the sun whole without apology.
But black black is something else. It doesn’t turn. It doesn’t beg. It absorbs.
It’s the silence between stars. The unspoken between lovers. The last thing your father’s eyes held before he sank.
And violet that hesitant echo of black is distance turning its head away just before the goodbye.