Almost the light that allows for sight. The sight the sparrow sees and sighs, but that’s not me. I’m not quite white, nor brown. What I am is the lightened coffee so your day doesn’t start so bitter. What I am is the aged page that has been read one thousand times; Not by choice but by force of teacher. That same teacher handed you a cheap folder without pockets on the first day of school to hold writing assignments. That folder is my color. What I am is the scorching sand you step and settle on as you approach the sea. What I am is skin, easily turned red by the scrapes as you slide sprucely down the sidewalk. Sidewalk chalk that is beige.