Catch the Quasar

She was another of those: eyes pale blue like Neptune against caramel angular skin that urges me to dip into the aether and fly within the stormy blue winds. I shiver. I cannot hold my own against these. She asks me why I read Joyce and the wry curve of her thin purple lips lifts a tone of maroon irony that slips through the transistor radio of my ears and colors my already-turbulent waters with that yearning to return the idea and add my hue to the canvass on which she first drew. If only she knew that I was too far in deep space to mind Neptune: I'm blind to all until I meet Miss Begin.