Salty

I remember the flung buckets of paint,

Because one hit me on the cheek.

It was bright turquoise, my blood,

But it didn't taste bitter like I thought it would.

In the air I feel my growth as gravity grounds us

But those who float do not care for what they leave behind.

And neither should I.

I believe sunsets are photographed too many times;

But because they aren't remembered, our minds must let them replay over and over.

In the rhyming ringing of the clocktower's bells, we're reminded how futile buckets of paint are,

Especially when at night-time, gravity lets the rain come to shower the turquoise from my thoughts.

~