Imparted to paper,
these pastel articulations sing
viscous and fluid,
running like fire on water,
which bear a weighty resemblance
to those dried lilacs
which still bloom lavender grays and blues.

Hues, which forever
insist on more stories, new and retold
resounding you.
These unmistakable blues,
like a gentle hand resting
on our shoulders,

resounding. What you captured here
captured you, too.
But how could you have known
that in your leave
we are stuck, fixed in this mystic
insisting on more.

–Jack