Not a color, but something that happened. Like the year the bed was shared and you forgot everything that happened at its edges. Not shared, but emptied. Not emptied, but utterly. I wrote it all down while you slept, and I did not ever. Not a color, but a reflection of what you’ve done. Not a mouth, but a place to be hurt and by this I mean: an adult orphanage. At best, another if, then. A thing smeared, and not even that.