The sky, Lupita’s gown, Cinderella, Smurfs, the sky, you, Sailor Mercury, the sky, you, 8-bit skies, Frutiger skies, you, the sky, you, the sky, you, the sky. What else is blue? 

The field of flowers attacks your senses. A saving grace turning a straight line into a bulb. No matter how many times you are dropped into the scene, you adjust to the green. You forget all about stars until tonight.

A violet sky never goes unnoticed. It feels dangerous, a warning at the end of line. A line doesn’t point to a thing. It is the interaction between two things, how they rub up against each other, until you can’t tell the difference. The line keeps the entire universe from falling apart into a blob of jelly. It’s hard to cross it when you’re looking. But by now, you’ve crossed many and didn’t realize until you were on the other side. At the end of the world, you once imagined the soundtrack a swooping eerie silence, no birds or guns left. Now you could go for heavy metal or upbeat disco-synth pop.

The pale blue rolls in, weighing the same as your last page. Dilation of all sorts, sweet pollen and eventually, honey and yum. Light you interpret as serene and blooming, before the nausea of knowing what speed you’re hurtling through the uncontainable sets in. A new story won’t write itself, but the bees know what the flowers want from the way they taste. A cluster of lonely strangers delivering soft blows to each other, playing pretend in the lily-strewn haze.

You believe in happy endings. Shooting stars, time, eclipse, time, orbit, star. You see the sunset you are inside of.

Metals and hums in the air. A leaf does not exist on a naked branch, then one day it does, the entire thing does, and you were there the whole time but when did it happen? You can’t pinpoint it. But you can look out the window, see the whole thing—and stop waiting between the lines because there are none, only seasons and electricity. The window is the only thing between you. 

Jelly shoes skipping down the sidewalk. Dreams of escape and moving to a big city with more than new glass and mountains. Cul-de-sac. Clean girls over pixie dream girls. Smooth out the pixels, now reverse it. Paris cobblestone and ballet flats for a week and then you’re back. 

A drop of blue changes everything. You are a shadow on the wall, and somewhere another you is watching your shadow. Shadow is just an approximation, just like the forest is an approximate location of music. You are filled with it. Everything is a balloon, roughly.