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Description
Emotions are all shades of purple, the most unnatural color to walk the face of the earth. Music smells like berries.

The ambiance of her room is gray, a color that is envied by clouds and never, ever leaves your mind. It’s dark enough to help me sleep, but I can’t dream around it. It clings for days like the scent of cigarettes.

“That’s inappropriate,” she claims, “And I told my mother...”
We groan under the beat of Rock Band version 2.0, and share a knowing glance. I grin. You frown. She’s focused on winning.

Music is blaring from our car, though I stoop to call it that. The other names for it make us smile. “That’s inappropriate,” she repeats. We cock our eyebrows and turn it up. Lavender, I call it. Love is totally punk rock, and this is lavender.

You fall asleep on me. I smile. Proof. Love; totally punk rock.

He’s Leif. This is a bad reference to a book you’ve never read, but he is. He’s read them, and he is. The way he twitches and is always moving and is not at all like the description... He’s going to be a hero next year. Trust me.

I know you. I know how you think and giggle and scrawl and write and how you’re not good at things like words and how your heart beat feels and how your hair is flopsy-mopsy-messy.
And I acctually think you might know me.

The sun struggles through her venetian blinds but is chased off by the gray, grapey purple. I breathe it in and smile. No where else deserves this color. No one else but her.

The Matches are an unripe razz berry. They’ve wizened and warmed to sweetness with time. I can’t taste them, really, anymore.

I’ll paint my walls lavender and that car and your hair and his freckles and the lines from that play and the name of that book and those words and jokes and so many words. I’ll paint them all shades of purple so that you can see how they feel. So you can feel them, too.

You smile.

Description
Emotions are all shades of purple, the most unnatural color to walk the face of the earth. Music smells like berries.

The ambiance of her room is gray, a color that is envied by clouds and never, ever leaves your mind. It’s dark enough to help me sleep, but I can’t dream around it. It clings for days like the scent of cigarettes.

“That’s inappropriate,” she claims, “And I told my mother...”
We groan under the beat of Rock Band version 2.0, and share a knowing glance. I grin. You frown. She’s focused on winning.

Music is blaring from our car, though I stoop to call it that. The other names for it make us smile. “That’s inappropriate,” she repeats. We cock our eyebrows and turn it up. Lavender, I call it. Love is totally punk rock, and this is lavender.

You fall asleep on me. I smile. Proof. Love; totally punk rock.

He’s Leif. This is a bad reference to a book you’ve never read, but he is. He’s read them, and he is. The way he twitches and is always moving and is not at all like the description... He’s going to be a hero next year. Trust me.

I know you. I know how you think and giggle and scrawl and write and how you’re not good at things like words and how your heart beat feels and how your hair is flopsy-mopsy-messy.
And I acctually think you might know me.

The sun struggles through her venetian blinds but is chased off by the gray, grapey purple. I breathe it in and smile. No where else deserves this color. No one else but her.

The Matches are an unripe razz berry. They’ve wizened and warmed to sweetness with time. I can’t taste them, really, anymore.

I’ll paint my walls lavender and that car and your hair and his freckles and the lines from that play and the name of that book and those words and jokes and so many words. I’ll paint them all shades of purple so that you can see how they feel. So you can feel them, too.

You smile.