Sulfur

she writes in yellow. black fingernails scrape through the honey. the rain chases the sun. the cold chases the heat. in a futile campaign to prove this flesh is still connected.

the orange comes in punches of touch. broken drums still beating with the echos of when. i could still name my demons. see their faces and know which ones to trust. their glass eyes cracked and glowing. with missing suns. and the simple paradise of forgetting.

every fairy tale has its ogres. mine are no different. each Camelot pretends the grail exists. but our breadcrumbs prove different. in the woods. Servants to an exit we can't see. pulling on a sword i can never hope to release.

the red in her dreams is quiet. leg warmers and fallen stockings. as she crawls across the bridge. certain it will open as she approaches the center. knowing it will never let her cross it.

the colors. in cold prophets. the parity of choices. as she touches the edge. the color of her skin. as she approaches the devil. with her empty basket. certain he is desperate enough to accept.