Her room was painted,

A dark shade of violet,

And her black bookshelf,

Made the silver writing,

On the spines of her books,

Shine with an eery light.

Her closet had,

The same color pallet,

All year round.

With dark purple boots,

In the strange color of sangria.

Black skinny jeans,

And ripped shorts,

In varying shades of purple.

Black and white t-shirts,

Mixed in with ones,

That where all dark colors,

Of purple,

And black.

And her constant necklace,

Was the mineral amethyst,

Which was clasped around her neck,

On a thin silver chain.

Her dark brown hair,

Had a few purple,

And silver streaks,

Which she had gotten,

The day she turned sixteen.

And whenever the sky,

Was split open with lightning,

She would tell her cat,

“Relax….It’s only magic.”

And on the cleariest nights,

During summer,

She would get out,

Her grandfather’s old telescope,

And map the stars,

Whispering,

“Leo the lion, Gemini the twins,”

And other constellations,

Which she knew by heart.

And then,

She would often fall alseep,

In her silver chair,

By the window,

Murming one last time,

“Good night world,

Full of universal purple magic.”