like black charcoal smudges that turn soft
the two of you blend together
he is the romantic
not attacking you with love
but knowing when you need it
his vintage porsche in the shop
but he'll go home on the train
to work the grave shift
again
just to be with you
to make cookies with you
to see "the family"
and you are the girl
every art school boy noticed
the magenta, blorange, and
jet black
who somehow calms in his presence
it amazes me but I welcome it
and he is welcome too
i approve

“i set out to find a rhyme for orange
but all I could think of was door hinge
unless you’ve heard of the mountains of blorange
in which case you’re a fool”

and for a brief moment
i could see, for the first time, with my own eyes
the brilliance of that most worn and beaten
orange notebook
it sat there, on the floor
and i could feel its pain
all the years of torment
expressed openly upon the pages within
the anguish of grief
the sadness of loss
the fear and hatred of death
i could feel all of the emotions that had been bottled up inside
and it was simply overwhelming
all of that emotion
locked away inside
held slovenly together
by a single, thin, rusting wire
and encased by a brilliant, tattered, and fading orange cover
i suppose it is only proper
that the cover of that notebook be
orange
one of the few words in the english language
that simply doesn’t rhyme