i don’t look at you any more
for i think you’re the same
every day
yet you aren’t, are you
the light falls
differently
the colours carouse
at their own will
there’s purple and pink some day
some day
it’s less orange
sometimes more red than you are in the
mood for
there’s ochre, mocha, and blue
and the shapes?
what are they called
wish i knew
streaks and billows
shimmery peaks
and meadows
lashes of a riotous
unfettered iridescent
paint brush
an arc of red, an orb of fire
a point of turning
so we may return
to the seethe of desire
every day
fluid and changing
as ever unchanging
perhaps you’re a work of art
or perhaps you’re not
need we know?
she walked into the room and said,
did you look at the sunset today?
and i realised
i don’t look at you any more
