The Piper cleans spittle from her pipe. Saliva, it seems, should have been grey all along, akin to dishwater and drain water and whatever the chimney heaves out. 
    The pipe is packed in a velvet case, neat.
    The case is packed in a slender hand, ready.

    The first time I was kissed was yellow. 
    Not National Geographic yellow, or house-paint yellow, not even buttercup yellow really. The yellow of flames devouring themselves in a wood stove, only softer. Rising moon yellow, only wide and warm and not so far away.
    I remember the streetlamp and the way lamplit snow looks like dust from heaven, but the color I remember was more inside my body than out of it. Funny, how color can make dark December feel like the sun.

    There are no glances as the Piper passes the subway gates and steps onto the train car. They don’t notice the color drain from their own faces; their eyes are busy with solitaire and social media and sins. The Piper stands, despite the empty seats.

    My mother told me that the sky dressed itself in pink and green when I was born, playing at being dancer, donning the scarves of old myths. Pirouetting particles, movement magnetized, aurora alight and stars the lights of a swaying crowd. Coaxing, promising, ushering me into the world.
    If we all ate a piece of the sky, would we learn to dance too?

    The train station is a small walk from the 18th century theater. The cobblestone street is cold. There should be a gargoyle, but the doors swing open wide like a ready mouth without a single spying eye.
    This concert has no tickets.
    This performance has only one act.

    There’s something special about a red cloak against a white sky. There’s something in the way your eyes are green and gold and dark ocean all at once, the way the walkway trees burst purple with April air. I make music playlists in pastels and hum songs that are forest green. I ran for the edge of the rainbow once, as if it would keep me sane. 

    The click echoes as the case is opened. 
    The stones quiet as the pipe is raised into the air.
    The curtains bleed grey as the Piper plays, blood-red coloring disappearing in a rush, a face devoid of blush or life or touch.

    I’m falling into the snow and there’s no color, no memory, just white and white and white, but white is a prism made up of every rainbow. It’s a yellow kiss and a pink sky and a red cloak and green eyes all lost together.

    A symphony is played from a single set of lips. A hundred eyes look up, seeing only sound. A thousand notes swim on a rising wind.

    It’s cold. I forgot my hat. I forgot my scarf. I forgot I could close my eyes and still see the speckles of stars, dancing, spinning, aching, forgot to keep myself warm, forgot to repeat the right words.

    They hold their breath.

    White is a prism, and white is the color of a skeleton. When the wind blows just right, I think I can feel mine somewhere inside.
    When the wind blows just right, I can feel my skeleton dance.

    The Piper lowers the pipe from her lips and bows, graceful, to an empty room.