the city stains inadequate

a single cloud reaches out from the line of the city reclining already asleep on the horizon. in this room, you are high enough to see more sky than you are accustomed to: the cloud almost fills the sky, the city's stain incapable of bleeding through it entirely, but almost; a bare rim of white puffs above the muddy orange, barely but successfully limns your perspective in a warm pallor; light, feathery, pure; untouched by grime.

you trace the line where the stain ends and the purity begins; your finger earthy, small, inadequate as the stain as a means of defining the cloud; quiet, so quiet, so serene, and still, you almost don't want to breath. then you remember how clean the air seems up here, and you take a swallow of it with your cheap, unsatisfying wine. you swallow some more; but you will not empty the bottle tonight: it isn't that kind of place.

sometimes, you think, you could love it here. but you know you don't want to, can't afford to; what you love isn't here.

pale shadows: orange. muddy orange. rain. and white.