Oh, I know—you don’t remember it.
That’s because it happened in purple crayon.
No, it’s alright. All our best conversations
Are like that. I’m used to it.
I drew us a nice sofa, and two glasses of tea.
I drew you there beside me, I drew
A beautiful friendship
I wrote down all your words in speech bubbles;
But all I had was this purple crayon,
So I’m afraid it’s a bit discoloured--
No matter. One gets used to purple after a while.
*note: this poem was written a longish while ago, but never posted and more or less forgotten. I just ran across it the other day.