I want to write about orange.
So solidify it, They tell me,
into a tangible tangerine,
whose smile bleeds sweet citrus
on a razors edge
for the blackbirds dipped in ink.
Breathe life into it, They say,
until each inhale
drowns your mouth
in the crisp currency of clementine.
Write some obscure metaphor,
They tell me,
about how orange is the heartbeat between nothing and conception
and the last breath before eternity.
They coil in corners, pens poised
to decipher it , dissect it
figure out what it could mean.
Maybe it means someone is about to die.
Or maybe,
It just means orange was the color
of the shirt you were wearing
the day you told me goodbye.
