Dec 29
Yellow Sweater's picture

My grey

Where I live, both the sea and sky are grey. The clouds collect in our cups. Mirrored in dichotomy, monotony dances, revealing the subtle irony of divine humor.  We drink tea. 

We can only contemplate infinite. By defining our melancholy, we make it finite. 

God, You are bitter-sweet. Whole. Made of a dense, dancing, emptiness. I pour You into me like hot water and I wait to feel the colors. 

Under heavy blankets, hovering amidst insubstantial blue, I watch the achromatic light evolve as the morning flattens and deepens. I wait for grey.