Not of something else.
My father knew this.
He told me early.
I still look up sometimes.
Not praying. Just looking.
The blue goes deeper than I can see.
It used to frighten me.
All that empty.
All that nothing watching back.
Now it feels like truth.
Clean and cold and clear.
When the color shifts at dusk
I think of him.
How he loved the world
without needing it to love him.
The blue he taught me to see.
Not divine. Just here.
And it will outlast my name
and everyone who spoke it.
