Orange
Image credits: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/23081016835555521/
“My God, a moment of bliss. Why, isn’t that enough for a whole lifetime?”
July. What color would July be if one could see it painted on a blank and meager wall? Not red, not yellow, nor any darker hue. Orange. Orange would be the color of July. Orange, like the fruit when it ripens in the winter, glowing heavily in the pockets of a young boy, empowering him to embrace his first love. Orange, like a California poppy scuffed by dirt and roughed by a brazened summer sun, blossoming poisonously in the mouths of rejected sons and daughters. Orange, like a dimly-lit jazz club in Paris, buzzing with eager, tipsy, and lustful youth.
There, within the walls of that dungeon-like bar situated in the heart of Paris, a young woman stood inside dressed in sparkling black. Her long, blonde hair was gathered behind her head with a pale blue ribbon slightly brighter than the color of her eyes. Pearls rested on her neck, glistening against the white of her collarbone. And everywhere around her beamed a dangerous orange glow. Dangerous, like a juvenile inferno gaining multitude and magnitude with every breath of oxygen feeding it. Dangerous, because once a fire is started, it’s hard to let go. She thought she’d light a match, kindle it a little, watch it as a bright yellow flame erupted from a single strike, hoping that this sole flame would be enough.
But as the night sweltered on, this orange madness only grew and grew, taller and wider until every corner of the bar reflected potent flames back into her eyes. Not even a pair of oceanic-blue eyes could water down the magma spreading throughout her chest, the lava bubbling across her hands and legs, the heat beating almost sonically between her thighs. By the time the club was closed–the medieval wooden doors firmly shut, the vivid red lights illuminating the lettering along the outside walls dimmed completely–she felt her heart drop. She watched and silently mourned as the fire slowly disintegrated between her and this stranger she’d only just met. Even the thought of goodbye aroused tears in her eyes–tears that would surely kill this fire completely.
As their hands unlinked and fell each to their sides, she forced her eyes to stay put on his, even though she could feel the waterfall inside her about to overflow. Please don’t go. Please tell me you can stay. Please don’t walk away and leave her alone, she begged him inside her head. Though she was not alone but accompanied by two friends and a school of drunk men and women dancing rowdily inside a reggae club just across the street, she knew the moment they parted it would seem as though nobody else existed in the room but herself. This was exactly how it felt being with him–as though nobody but the two of them occupied the space, the world around them, with only an electric wave of bliss radiating between them.
But that sweet, fiery bliss had evaporated into the thick and musty air of the Paris streets at two a.m., nowhere to be found now that they had woken from their dream of heavy orange light, distant jazz music, and love at first conversation and touch.
I’ll see you tomorrow, he had whispered softly, sweetly, with honest intent behind every word. She knew it was not possible though, that this was it. This night could not go on forever. What seemed like a single moment of bliss was actually hours upon hours of time passing, and it would die as quickly as it had been born. Her only hope was that some new and foreign phoenix would rise from the ashes of their dissipated moment, capture her in its arms, and steal her away to another dimension of love’s euphoria. It was only a matter of when.
Still she begged, Don’t go. We can hold on to this night, make it last until the morning’s evil sunrise renders no choice but to leave it all behind. But her internal pleas were useless. He could not read her mind, nor could he obey her requests. And she knew this.
She watched with melancholic eyes as every speck of dust wafted into the conglomerate shadow of a million dying stars and faded silhouettes—lifetimes forever illumined by one night in July’s orange glow.
Written By Brinn Wallin
Published in Precipice Magazine, “Overture - Issue 1,” Winter 2025, https://www.precipicemag.org/issue-1/orange-brinn-wallin
This poem was created and written by Brinn Wallin. Please do not steal or copy without permission.
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