Grey

The sky is grey, like forgiveness

or a mosquito growing old.

My clothes are grey like eyes closing and suddenly, the scent of winter‘s rustling vanguard.

I’m diving through a pool in black and white —greyscale— and my eyes take in the stars down deep.

Grey is gone now for browns and word salad. I don’t know I’m relatively happy and that this feels like warm memory. My head is fuzzy when it isn’t grey.