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Aged Ivory

Almost the light that allows for sight. The sight the sparrow sees and sighs, but that’s not me. I’m not quite white, nor brown. What I am is the lightened coffee so your day doesn’t start so bitter. What I am is the aged page that has been read one thousand times; Not by choice but by force of teacher. That same teacher handed you a cheap folder without pockets on the first day of school to hold writing assignments. That folder is my color. What I am is the scorching sand you step and settle on as you approach the sea. What I am is skin, easily turned red by the scrapes as you slide sprucely down the sidewalk. Sidewalk chalk that is beige.

Aged Ivory

Almost the light that allows for sight. The sight the sparrow sees and sighs, but that’s not me. I’m not quite white, nor brown. What I...