Have you ever tried
to describe
a color
without giving the name?
It tastes like the burnt parts
of the sun, all rust and metallic.
Women paint it on their pouty
lips and smear it on lovers’ faces.
It peeks out of the underside of the horizon
at dawn, unbearably quiet.
Then rages to full roar when
dusk begins to traipse the endless sky.
It pulses and it races
while it breathes light into the air.
And smells like morning peppermint
on the breath of a lover no longer there.