Indigo You Are Violet

voices skating secrets across the rim of a wine glass, breath advocating a glance. Plucking nerves like a guitar string wind revealing the liars tongue, never failing to encapsulate the quiet tuck, serenades of existence pouring solitude down a rusty rainspout to particular seasons that shadow a present future; as corrupted stain glass contributes a haunted soldered image. We never fully realize the petals won’t wilt, gardens remain constant hope becoming a postal card; parchments sealed with the adieu real like hairline cracked sidewalks sowed by constant sorrow. Distribute me from your straight jacket of resents, sanction me to feel the softness of the salt water breeze; a chance meeting with eyes unable to ascend knowing that the plural form of time is indigo you are violet.