Sky, that harlot, can't make up her mind what color to be.

June 26th, 2012, 9pm

It all depends on who’s watching. Which cloud they’re standing under. Sky, that chameleon, can’t decide if she likes Free Willy or Gallipoli. Somewhere, there is always sun. Just now, storms break low on the horizon. Dressed in gray, the pimp stands at the pulpit, calm and cruel as a blank page. Sky, he claims, is always white, always holy. And if I forget to notice how she wraps the whole world in one long embrace, it’s only because I get lost in all the colors: green sleeves, red blood, blue heart.

Christine and David Wade said thanks.

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Deb Stone

The truest thing that's ever been said about me was by my fourth grade teacher, "She talks too much and wanders about, out of her seat." Though I've wrestled various plots and characters in my life, I never get too far off that spine. You can find me at Twitter/Facebook/Instagram at iwritedeb.

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