He can choose whatever he wants to be but to me, he is always purple. Purple swaddles a baby in soft pastels, gentle and precious. It clothes a king, harsh and arrogant. I am either the subject of his passion and love, or the subject of his wrath and disgust. Purple softens in the sun, but in the darkness it camouflages itself, dissolving into the shadows. He chooses his hue as the sun rises, and I am paralyzed, hesitant and guarded as I wait each morning for his shade of purple to reveal itself.