Somewhere in the haze, I see the color
violet—a bruise beneath the
sky. I trace it with the bones of my
fingers, where God used to hide his warmth.

Now, the air tastes like burnt sugar, and
all I can do is stand here, breathing in
the ash of memory. My tongue curls at
its edge. Each breath is a theft, a quiet

heist. Somewhere, the violet trembles, ...