We’re standing in a room painted cheerful tangerine,

It matches the sunset sky,

As it gasps it’s last breathe of orange,

And that’s when you kiss me.

 

And suddenly the sunset is so much more,

And cheerful tangerines dance through my eyelids,

When I day-dream about that night-reality,

And how your lips are my new favorite citrus,

 

Orange after orange passes through the sky,

Some days hidden by clouds of powder milk,

But always there,

And so are you and your cheerful tangerine room,

 

But oranges are perishable goods,

And soon your kisses taste sour,

And the childish peal-between-your-lips smile isn’t as sweet,

And soon after that what we have between us rots,

 

And suddenly I realize,

That a sunset is just a sunset,

And that cheerful tangerine is just paint,

And I don’t need to put my love,

 

Into the confines of a poem,

Or the confines of an orange peal,

Which may seem protective from the outside,

But is suffocating from within.