I can’t remember when but
the world was drained of color.
Incrementally, I morphed into a
frog, my brain the pot: waterlogged
and set over the stove to boil or
burn, too subtle to be prevented.
Just a small antenna my only door,
an entire world unsaturated.
Maybe it’s always been this way
but no matter how many prisms
or optical calculations I can never
see how light refracts in another
retina or change the way that now
A walk down the street is
wading through quicksand and
you avoid lying down because
you may never get back up,
too exhausted to fight gravity.
You notice yourself more often
staring at the blank beige wall,
the least visually abrasive one
melting into an achromatic pool
suspended, time stands still.
But I remember when everything
was vivid: hosing down scorching
city pavement condensed a warm
grey perfume, summer a kaleidoscope
of greens, yellow tickled my tongue.
Trees combusted burnt orange to falling
ash, plum juice thick as blood dribbled
down my chin, my heart bulbous and
iridescent as the full moon.
I know I can get myself back,
And so, even in slow-motion, I keep walking
My eyes are color blind but I refuse to close them.