Purple is the tandem bicycle you both share while
pedaling past chateaus and gardens in the Loire Valley.
Purple is the aroma of lavender that sashays around these hills and
copulates with the milky musk that grapevines exhale at dusk.
Purple is the earthy sweetness of Pinot Noir that you pour
over scoops of vanilla bean ice cream in martini glasses.

His purple prose is the red flag you don’t see.
His words are larger than life. Amaranthine.

Purple is the stain that blooms on his heirloom wool rug.
Purple is the vein that protrudes from his neck and then
purple are the lights that shatter your vision.
Purple is the bruise that webs on your throbbing temple while you
ease a shard of martini glass from your hand.

Purple are the two lines that appear on the pee stick.
Purple is the escape car that delivers two fragile lives to safety.

Sometimes red and blue
Are best kept separate because
Purple is painful