Translucence.

There was something foggy about the way the light kissed the water, 

the way the sky caught the apartment-

building tops- 

the way you said you were sleepy.

But you were always sleepy and I'm tired of dreaming, because lately, I only dream in black & white. 

Bright photons like paint chips;

falling off these bridges onto steam ships-

rolling by, obscuring my-

images. 

The fog? Can you see it? Or is it just my imagination?

Because pictures get blurry when you stare at a watery reflection, but I thought that light was supposed to clear things up. 

And now I'm up-

on that rooftop apartment, connecting cloud vapor with my pinkies and leaving handprints on the spring breeze and I'm just waiting to see some color again; 'cause I've been living in a coma, and this grey-scale circadian dreaming's getting to be...

upsetting. 

Maybe if I jump, the water will freeze me, and I'll wake up feeling cozy, because you were always cold to the touch--and right now, all I need is a shock to my system to turn me bloodcells into snowflakes and my feet into ice skates so that I can find a way to slice through this dense fog; 

because when I'm in it, you can see me, and your gaze is the only thing that can melt me--

And I want to live forever. 

The way light kisses water and photons never shatter and paint chips learn to scatter-

thos are things that can't get lost in a haze, 

and maybe they'll help me construct a map that reads in color, 

so that I'll find one way or another-

to catch a ticket out of my comatose and follow rivers until I overdose-

on the feeling of being fluid and transluscent.