At first, there is abstraction. Fragmentation of something soft, something yellow, something not. I do not know where we are. With budding clarity I see pores, and there begins to exist an obvious hushed sense of entanglement, pops and crackles of something cooking, something sizzling, a fire, a hunger.
Then they appear, slowly and silently falling into each other. I know where we are now: amongst the stars, existing in the house of two lovers. They are quite ripe in their form, a quiet kind of love, gentle touches painted with bumps; two braided into one, folding gathering feeling retreating ever so slightly just to fall back again sort of affection, a need to be laced up, a need to become the other, because lovers are of course two strips of one cloth.
Then there’s urgency. They burn. When they do, they pull back; it is a surprise, the intensity of the moment, the fire of the release is all too profound to look in the eye, because then what if it goes away?
Now it is The End. In the beginning of said End is decay; the moisture of the passion has dissipated, curling into itself at the edges, drying out the tandem, halting all movement. The End then turns into a memory--a memory of the once ripeness, when they were in rhythm, in music, in singularity. But even that sliver of love begins to rot, a memory gone wrong. The End transforms into personal, individual tormentation, what went wrong, they were in silent bliss, memories pile, pores ponder their existence, orange burning turns into a white drought, until all we see is one form. One form, winding on into itself, outlines scrambling upon themselves, bending with no aim, uncomfortable in their culmination.
And in The End, there is abstraction.
Love is orange.