The Day the Sky Was Made a Little Bluer
︎︎︎ Nick Neihart
︎ July 27, 2024
In the morning she rose, though she still lay upon the bed, and walked to the window. Her hair was tethered to her sleeping body so she could not go very far. When she gazed out the window and saw the sky for the first time, the blue in her eyes broke like an egg yolk and all the color inside the sack of her iris streamed down her face. Blue paint streaks dripped from her porcelain cheeks and mottled the lace breast of her white gown. The yolks of her eyes kept running down her face and arms until she turned completely blue.
When she walked, her footprints were swallowed by the stones and no trace was left of her passage. She climbed into bed with herself but she did not wake. She smeared the perfect cheeks of her sleeping self but could not stain them. She tore at the sheets and covered them in paint but they would not tear nor stain. She screamed blue and beat blue into the walls but before her eyes, they absorbed the color and turned white again like waves receding in the sand. She was blue and she was alone in the white tower.
Days went by, then weeks and she began to spend more time gazing out the window. The sky was blue and she felt the blue of her own isolation melt away when she looked at it. She played a game with the sky where she held up her arm and pretended that it disappeared. This made her laugh. She often spoke to the sky and began to hear its reply in her inner ear. When night fell and the blue ran away, she grew afraid; for then she felt truly alone.
After some time, she came to realize that she was a piece of the sky that had fallen to earth. She longed to return to it, but her hair was tethered to her sleeping self in the bed; jet black like the sky after the blue fled.
No matter how hard she tore at her hair, she could not break it and gain her independence. She paced round the room and watched her blue footprints recede into the white stone. For days now, she had felt the sky beckon to her and heard its voice calling out her name in the wind. Her longing grew so great that she could finally bear it no more. She gathered up her dress and climbed upon the window sill. Looking up into the kind face of the sky, she declared in a sure and gentle voice, here I am, and leapt out the window. Her hair came loose as she fell through the air and hot blue tears of release rolled out the corners of her eyes. She fell deeper and deeper into the sky, like a bead of water spilling toward a can of paint. She fell until there was nothing left but falling and the outline of her cerulean form dissolved into the sky’s wide-open arms.
When she walked, her footprints were swallowed by the stones and no trace was left of her passage. She climbed into bed with herself but she did not wake. She smeared the perfect cheeks of her sleeping self but could not stain them. She tore at the sheets and covered them in paint but they would not tear nor stain. She screamed blue and beat blue into the walls but before her eyes, they absorbed the color and turned white again like waves receding in the sand. She was blue and she was alone in the white tower.
Days went by, then weeks and she began to spend more time gazing out the window. The sky was blue and she felt the blue of her own isolation melt away when she looked at it. She played a game with the sky where she held up her arm and pretended that it disappeared. This made her laugh. She often spoke to the sky and began to hear its reply in her inner ear. When night fell and the blue ran away, she grew afraid; for then she felt truly alone.
After some time, she came to realize that she was a piece of the sky that had fallen to earth. She longed to return to it, but her hair was tethered to her sleeping self in the bed; jet black like the sky after the blue fled.
No matter how hard she tore at her hair, she could not break it and gain her independence. She paced round the room and watched her blue footprints recede into the white stone. For days now, she had felt the sky beckon to her and heard its voice calling out her name in the wind. Her longing grew so great that she could finally bear it no more. She gathered up her dress and climbed upon the window sill. Looking up into the kind face of the sky, she declared in a sure and gentle voice, here I am, and leapt out the window. Her hair came loose as she fell through the air and hot blue tears of release rolled out the corners of her eyes. She fell deeper and deeper into the sky, like a bead of water spilling toward a can of paint. She fell until there was nothing left but falling and the outline of her cerulean form dissolved into the sky’s wide-open arms.
Nick Neihart has published five chapbooks and released four albums under the moniker TEV. His most recent work is about blood-sucking butterflies, suburban mystics, alchemy, and piss. Nick lives in Los Angeles.