The Science of sorrow

It's not as if the light in the house
became purple without warning or cause
we knew, somewhere deep within,
in a room with no windows,
lived the science of sorrow

We agreed, then
to speak quietly
with the comfortably deaf, who smiled
happy in the ocean of no-sound
the conversation was profound
and there were no conclusions



I walked away
and was not followed
even though the shadow of the other
stretched endlessly ahead
I made a note to myself
about how light moves in waves
not straight, but blindly random,
like cigarette smoke
searching for lungs

It's only right
that it should be purple