Sop.

I am like the color black,

But often that sounds too goth

Sopping up the heat of the sun,

I am warm to the touch,

I am warm to the touch yet distant.

I prefer to stay distant.

I am not really a color,

Like black is not really a color.

Black and I soak in all the color.

My head is blue,

Like Frida’s home

Like a crisp, cold pool

Eyes in the clouds

Deep, deep sky

Feet far from the floor

It is happy here

It is quiet.

I am never red.

Except for my lips,

Lips that sometimes are tightly closed

Lips that sometimes are wide and loud

Lips that even without sound are always saying something.

My anger is brown,

Like my hair

It is soil

It is bark

It is serious

Like my skin

Like my eyes

Like my hands

So serious.

I wish I were yellow

Or healing ultraviolet

Or green like the grass that promises freshness but leaves me itchy.

I still lay there though,

I still long for the experience.

I still soak it up,

To sop up the heat from the earth,

To stay warm to the touch.

I am warm to the touch,

I am warm to the touch yet distant.

I prefer to stay distant,

I am not really a color,

Like black is not really a color.

Black and I soak in all the color.