Beautiful

She was gray like her eyes like

that one night like a dove she was 

gray and she slipped

in and out like breath she was

gray she is Beautiful in my phone

while everyone else has only

their given name, she

was gray like her eyes like

her breath like the words

that passed between the

silver of the table and the

touch of her fingertips

(it came out of the desert

like a white wailing demon

the realization)

she was beautiful, and

she will always be gray.

Reviews

[R.E. Ray]

JR, I've never seen "gray" used like you did here. It's almost always the color of dullness, depression, despair, death, etc. Though there is a sadness streaming through this poem, the reader can almost see the speaker thinking about her, maybe putting his fingertip on an old B&W photo or a gray-scale photo on his phone. There's history here but not bitterness. Good to read your work again.

[JR]

Thanks bud. Yes, gray, like fog, like something that could have been solid then wasn't. You read it well. I find gray interesting as a balance between black and white, and yet can have a depressed tone all it's own.

[R.E. Ray]

All good points, and good to know I read it as intended.