of mottled indigo nights (12/9/20)

“stars on her slippers and her ceiling /

lost in a lavender feeling /

striped wallpaper at twilight /

a solitary sun starts to bloom.” -- asenath rose’s lavender feeling.

and if purple swathes the room, then maybe i’ll dare to ask:

who is she--no, what could i be? and what are we? who could we be?

tracing constellations on windowpanes only gets us so far,

and the night is indigo, and these are the blues;

i think of her, and then of nothing at all, and of nothing but stars, and

this is peter realizing he loves wendy. this is where i decide she’s

worth it to me. worth believing in the scribbled stars on cuffed jeans

and picnic blankets and unripe nectarines. this is my ceiling fan telling me

that this is worth chasing the dream, because--

because i believe. i believe! and what is love, if not to believe? this is

me. this is lavender, and how it feels to be free. so i’ll leave at twilight,

and i’ll run for what we could be. it’s purple, tonight. and this is me.