Orange.

Words that, hours ago bulged at the tips of my lashes
like overripe fruit-
moist in their impatience,
now vanish. as dehydrated as my red-rimmed eyes,
as lost as hope, the same
hope whose disappearance inspired their existence.

I fumble haphazardly through irises and
dictionaries, rest my cheek against the pages
and run fingers across the words like braille.
desperate
for any piece of inspiration
that might have fallen,

waiting for me to pick it out
and turn its twisted legs and half hinged lips
into a piece of art.
And with a mind that hears in color
and understands the world in shades of green,
I am blind to this black and white page.

This unspoken fetus, swimming along my subconscious.
Muted cries that my scurrying eyes
just can’t swallow.
I fail to rescue this child of my lips,
and lack the proper diction
to lament my creativity’s untimely passing.