From space the earth’s veiled nighttime is not glorious violet. We know because there are pictures. But eyes shielded by a woman’s hands forbade the man resisting this notion. What other color is thick, velvety suede, when it can’t be caressed by vision? What other hue could the universe be in the moment its embodiment withholds it from you? There were others, surely; in the houses below surrounding the round building’s roof. But the smell of modest, floral perfume and finger bones perched on top optical nerves makes that thought irrelevant. He stood with her, having clambered together, before she divided herself from his sight. They were both aware of ambient, translucent fixtures, but were unnerved by their subtle hum and the prospect of being caught. As they stood beside the edge with him reaching backward to touch her, what she saw with arms draped around his neck was an alignment of heavenly bodies in the sky, to the blind man conveyed by apt, moistened lips. Regretfully, he can only imagine now what she must have seen, recalling her warm tongue, slender fingers and the comfort that smooth skin can bring; he’s left wondering. Where was each dot in its choreographed performance? He wanted to know how they’d gotten where they’d gotten, and more pressing to him was why. He was utterly consumed by a frantic urge to put each minute astral feature on a map and chart their course back to that instant! But mania gradually diverged to sullen despondence, and his payment of devotion for her passion forced their bodies from the sky. Most nights now, stars go unnoticed. Because they’ll never be the way they were. Because earth is purple, because air is fabric.