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purple missing: a whole season, 92 days and then more: jacaranda blooms along every other street, images of a purple schoolyard, cascading purple ache, a purple refusal, purple asking the sky to speak the same thing again, but slower this time, different, purple speech in something other than clouds, unformed and ruffled bedsheets, purple, unmade ideas for books, printed of course in purple, a purple sureness opening to the last page only to quickly close, purple bookmark still pressed between two halves, how many copies, how many phone calls over wi-fi happening in purple, dial tones without answer, weeks of to-do lists composed out of three colors only to fall back into ultraviolet: the unseen purple that lines every wall, every piece of hardwood that’s been chipped off and reflected in the imaginary: imagine this: a purple sheet of paper with one thin line drawn through the middle in black ink, draw it, then draw it again, and make the closest sound to purple you can without speaking, the loudest you can be without making a sound, make purple music out of the trees, so bright green now, holding onto none of it, none of what you can’t let go of.