Indigo and Violet

When I think of words coming together to form a story, I wonder what colors glisten as two words, like bubbles, merge- that fragment of a second when the independent meaning must pop itself to become something bigger and greater than itself. Is it chemistry? Yes, but I wish it wasn't. There must be another word for the covalent junction of these two unlike elements, when radioactivity pulsates through the fortuitous folds of the page, channels through the ink, and boils over into the crags of my thumb. I've always been fond of fountain pens that way.

Two words may be ionically written- Extravagant after a The, and all meaning is leeched off of The to fuel Extravagant's beauty. Yet, grammar gazes on from a dusty window miles away, blowing gentle kisses to The, the love it keeps to herself. That is the extravagant nature of the language: no phrase floats by without a kiss to each cheek.

The story, though I know not of its shape, of bubbles or pyramidal tetrahedrons, ought not to be broken for popped, unless to form something bigger and greater. I have no care for excerpts: what can be done with the shiniest slice of a soap bubble? Prose may be blown inside different winds than poetry; she is more of a poetic balloon, small grimy words that stretch and find a way to float into the sky. Prose is more of a bubble, more of a concrete shape- and yet, from a distance, I wouldn't see the difference either.