A Love Story in Technicolor

It’s as if we only see orange

orange hairs, fires, tigers,

orange tetherballs flying at our heads.

It’s as if we only know the rules of the playground.

The recess bell ringing,

lining up girls and boys separate,

avoiding the cooties,

throwing dodge balls at people,

who could only catch chicken pox,

creating the perfect future

inside of our orange playhouse,

and you are still sleeping in trees.

I can imagine you and I.

We wouldn’t have been friends.

You wouldn’t have liked my vertebrate

poking out of my skin

even as you don’t now.

We might have played house

but we could have never been

serious about playing house.

You’d have been too busy laughing

at the sun on my head, and I’d have

been staring at your arms,

plotting ways to fatten them up.

We would have attacked the obvious

when we weren’t creating it.

It would take years to teach us subtleties

are always more dangerous than orange.


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