If a hundred amethysts melted, and a handful of pink sapphires were crushed and diluted in ambrosia and spilt over bisque velvet, that would be the sky now. And white brittle splinters that aren’t glass but water fall so regally from its tender expanse.
Watch these splinters.
See them against the lamp light, see them on trees, on the roads, on the smooth cheek of a child, on the dull pane of a window, on a hawker’s brown wooden stall.
How easily it makes the longing worth it all.