The Color of Permission

In the novel I was reading this morning, I misread someone’s dress “the color of persimmon” as “the color of permission.” I like that so much better.

It set off a cavalcade of metaphor — not all good, mind you — in my head.

a chair that beckoned your secrets

salami with garlic so strong it hurt your feelings

anticipation that rotated like a pie display

a martini the color of heartache

well-worn sneakers in the shape of recovery

a violin solo melancholy as a September evening

danger that kept coming around like a gas station hot dog, persistant and ominous 

Okay. Your turn!

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