I don’t know if the produce is in abundance.
I never know such things;
they take gastronomy and
attach it to economics,
something that I immensely dread,
because I never know what I should demand,
and if it will ever be in supply.
But I know that the fruit bowl is
stocked with them,
and that the riddle whether the colour
came from the fruit,
or the fruit from the color
is something that can be found in encyclopedias,
which again,
I don’t approve,
because it collides chromatics with fact-checking,
a job I left long ago,
because it seemed rather boring to
write down what happened where,
as if memory was not enough to store occurrences.

I watch this colour paint my daily life in broad strokes.
The girl at the counter was wearing it,
and she tied a white ribbon in her hair.
The mailman carried packages
that seemed burnt of this colour
and called out to a 70s version of itself.
Some of the neighbours have changed
the curtains to add to the gaiety,
and they’re wearing flaming dresses in the malls, too.
The marigolds are in bloom again.
Once again,
I don’t know whether this is because it’s
their time to tassel out or because they’re happy for me
and the feeling in my heart;
the specifics conjoin
botany with my affection for you,
and I couldn’t look down upon it any more.
than I already do.

As I wait for this time to end,
I saturate my skin with its scented lotion, and
drink juice because I don’t eat the fruit as much
as you should have liked,
but only as much as you asked me to.
This is my attempt at meeting you halfway.
I’m high on orange.
Come back.

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