It’s the color of how we sin.
The swimming senses when all of the stars collide,
And the universe is one with us for once.
It’s the aftertaste of how we sin.
The flavor lingering between the lips,
And in each and every breath.
It’s the ghost of the thought of how we sin.
Like the dust settling from a husk,
Slow, graceful, perpetually present; without end.