You are the midnight purple
Of tonight’s sky, the blood red
That stains my wounds, the tender blue
Of bruised eyelids, the sting of orange
Juice, the vibrant green
Of a newborn bud, barely yellowed.
Times passes as your face embraces ancient yellow,
And your fingertips turn purple,
But you are still as beautiful as young green,
Sophisticated like the boldness of red
Satin, the memory of the sting of orange
Juices on your tongue, the shock of blue.
Of frostbite, then a deeper ocean blue,
Or a brighter yellow
Bee, suckling on a decaying orange
Flower, bruising purple
From wear and tear of the red
Blazing fire, which will yield, someday, to youthful green.
Will you lay with me in the aged green
Grass, or gaze at the blue
Sky? Will you pluck red
Roses, be nicked by their yellow
Cynicism of the world, of men? I am but purple
Adoration, and I hunger for your blue
Eyes, your buzzing yellow
Happiness, your certain fondness for red.
I kiss your cheeks of rosy red,
Flushed from your orange
Desire to see the yellow
Sun. You look to the fresh green
Horizon, to the new blue
Sky, and I realize I am not your love of purple.
I cannot bear to watch you embrace red, or purple,
Or orange or blue,
For I am green with envy and full of desire yellowed.
Mia Farinelli, age 17
New York, New York