.
He was a simple human with flesh as blue as blood or fire or candlelit alleyways. His eyes were the skyline stuck inside the mind of a child who has hands as red as the sea. When his hands landed on the matchsticks scattered on my kitchen, he had to crawl all the way towards me just to feel safe. And maybe that was the reason why I can't erase the traces of blue in my visualized red house.
He dislikes motion like how his feet can't function when I sit beside him, how his fingers fall into deep slumber the moment that his hand crosses the distance between his and mine; so he plays with colors. Renaming each hue with shades that are either contradicting to one another or colors that don't look aesthetic when paired. Shares the content from his database through telekinesis. Together, we see the world differently.
It was great but
when he left,
he didn't passed through
the doorway — he penetrated on
the lamplight, on the faint
glow of red on my ceiling,
on the clock's hands, on the
baubles glimmering like
lightning trapped in a
balloon, on the lights
bordering the corners of
the mirror, on the pillows
where he used to lay his head,
to all the places where
colors don't look
black or darkness
or silhouettes caged
in bleak blankets.
Long ago,
red was the color of my body:
lips red, eyes red,
toes red, skin red,
everything red that
when you place me
inside my bloodred
house, I would
camouflage perfectly
through the shadows,
empty spaces and
uncharted passageways,
I was the child.
Now, I am the phantom
lurking in places
where light can't
find me.
—MLD | 08082021
YOU ARE READING
Artifice
PoetryMy question marks were never caged but they always find ways to conceal their images and trick the pachydermatous spectator with artifice. Maybe, certainty can be Socrates listening to the mixtape in my closet? Maybe uncertainty can be me withou...
