Noon was just warm enough to turn the snow slick and bright.
The cold bit hard into our hands and cheeks, as we stepped left-right-right-left and waited to get into the basement concert. She turned to me and said, "I can't believe they're playing such a small venue!"
The sky was the blunt orange of a muddied prison worker.
The sky was the color of a danger klaxon.
The sky was the color of her hair, after the third bleach. The bathroom was mostly porcelain and the tub was weathered wrought iron, gigantic and ornate and bloody-smelling. She smiled at me, her hair in a plastic night cap, and she took my beard in her hands and tried to pull it out, to pull me to her, and we smiled, teeth touching, tongues playing.
The low sky was the color of iodine stains on pale skin, the breaks in the clouds like woven sutures.
The sky was the color of her lipstick in the half light of the stairwell, her breath like the wind as I pushed her hips and shoulders to the wall and our lips together.
The sky was the color of her panties (--thin, strained blacks darkened with secrets).
The sky was the color of the hickies she left on my neck, and the rising sun was the color of my blush when my friends saw me take off my scarf at a bar after church. I am not a dark man.
The sky was the color of the ocean the time we swam out past the breakers in South Carolina. The sky was the color of the Caribbean ocean, before we muddied it, kicking and laughing and falling out of the sun's pressure into the water's crisp zero-g. The sky was the blue dye of her hair, when we were happiest.
The sky was the color of the suit I wore to
The sky was
The sky was the color of the gin bottle we finished on the rooftop of the building where I worked just before The Change.
The sky was the color of old insulation tops and the wind swirled dangerously around our exposed shins, the wet grass white compared to our moist air. The eddies in the air tasseled our hair