Sky

The sky looks bruised. It is black and purple and reflecting the sunset in a glossy sheen of speckled gold. A very painful sort of beauty. Its watery skin stretches overhead, billowing like a kite one minute, spilling over itself the next. As the sun dips lower, a little something is whispered which causes the storm cloud to blush. A bright coral mingles with the purple for a moment... ...and then we recall for a split second that this is beauty with a price. The cloud we have met here is beaten and dark. It is alone in the expanse. The melanchololy dies in a flourish of red. I wonder who ripped their fingernail across the horizon and broke the tender flesh. Look, you see? There. She's bleeding.