The only thing that seems to change when the sun begins to rise in the city is the color of the sky
When light pollution becomes a natural blessing and not a human–ordained curse
I want to know why we’re so afraid of the dark, who first recognized the concept of “blue,” where the first murder with moral implication occurred, how we fall in love––don’t you dare tell me it’s all chemicals when my brain chemistry does not, and has never, worked––
I want to know when we decided that flying was such a good idea and what the optimum rate of a falling rose petal is after being thrown into the air by tiny fists made by hands too innocent to understand the implications of hitting another human being,
Hands that will grow to gently caress a lover as the sun rises behind the skyline.
Maybe, when all of my questions are answered, spring and summer can cease to be a storage house for the sadness of winter, and we can remove the boards from the windows with gentle kisses and trust I could never have in my childhood
In my life
We’ll stretch our weary limbs to the four corners of the earth and thank the sunrise when she takes our tiredness,
And maybe we’ll be able to figure out just what the color blue can be.