Accidentally filling that gap
of that “grey area” between the calm and urgent.
The middle ground of the hyped and deflated,
which gives sense to bystanders uninterested.
Two extremities
producing center point,
like the outstretched arms of a bullseye.
Not too different from an overshadowed flute,
it remains, though only with intentional recognition.
Purple is when you wish to both love and leave,
yet you are chained by its apathetic in action disposition,
so you do neither.
It is feeling a soft cotton pillow
while laying on a sandpaper bed.
It’s like eating expensive, classy food,
with flavorless, diabetic side dishes.
Purple smells like the dumpster behind the Febreze factory.
