White is a color

Milk    Cotton. Snow.
The cat’s belly of soft down.
Almost looking into the sun round.

A paper to write upon. Lace
round the edges of her panty.
The distance between us at just some
stupid golf event.

All the forms given to me at
the bank. The smell of the hospital.
Paint to cover an already blank canvas.
More milk, but this time in froth.

Why did we not write C…ds?
Floating dead and silent.
Why did she nod for yes, when
we both knew no.

If we color the night white then
we have made it into day.
Or is it left to erase all color
and see what remains.

Almost looking into the child’s
face smiling.
Teeth.

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About Pitboss14

Cosmic surfer of paradoxes.
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