The Sky

I don't look up at the sky enough, any more. Don't feel the colors enough.

All I notice are the skeleton-sketched borders. The patterned outlines of a dusty, sweaty morning in Delhi. When moisture sweeps in the moment you step out from your morning bath. It sticks to you. It sticks to you like guilt as you go about your day. It exults in your smallest exertion. It licks you, like a grey-brown giant cobweb of inertia and listlessness.

No colors.

Are they dead? Sometimes, I wish they were. I wish they were dead, so I wouldn't have to live with the knowledge that I can't see them. They're angry at me. They refuse to entertain me; refuse to enter my mind and flow through me.

I wish for a lost girl. A girl not from our times. A girl who lives fenced in her head from the corrupting greyness of the without. A girl who wears skirts. A girl who can See. A girl who can flow with me.

A girl who can love me for my colors and my music.

A girl who can love my Art, for my Art is the greatest expression of me as a living, breathing, beating human being.

But I'm losing my colors in a cesspool of mottled-grey guilt. And I'm losing You.