Not a color, but something that happened.

Like the year the bed was shared and you forgot

everything that happened at its edges.

Not shared, but emptied.  Not emptied, but utterly.

I wrote it all down while you slept, and I did not ever.

Not a color, but a reflection of what you’ve done.

Not a mouth, but a place to be hurt and by this I mean:

an adult orphanage.  At best, another if, then.

A thing smeared, and not even that.