By definition,
gray is the blur between black and white,
the empty space between together and
apart.
To me, gray is
the hollow yellow of a summer spent alone,
the sick violet undertone of a bruising
memory,
and all the colors in between.
gray is the dust that
clutters
overtop archived newspapers and
permanent words, and
the hushed singing of
happy birthday down the school hallway.
The empty swings that hold no one
but the wind.
Gray is the smudge of color
when the world turns too
fast,
and all the hues drain into the overcast sky.
To me, gray is
the quiet and the cold,
the snow that silences all.
The chill that runs through the arctic,
through unloved hearts and charred bones.
The taunting whisper of yesterday’s warmth,
bread that smells sublime but tastes
stale.
I remember watching the sky tip into the
empty streets from behind windows
that stretched out the lethargy as I listened
to the slow hum of the summer that lost
its mind
in the silence.
To me, gray is
the smudge between dead and living.
Alone,
sitting on the edge of the moon with
both feet hanging off, and
all the empty colors.