Whirlpools

Maroon

I suppose there can be many interpretations which can be drawn from a single hue.

My favourite shade wasn't the tint of peacock green or rich ultramarine but rather it was maroon - The shade of brick, blood and her lips.

Her lips were rather a spectacle - a show which was more dramatic than herself . Her lips were the place where my thoughts lingered and bloomed - a thought which occupied much of time and made me overcome much of my melancholy.

She had perfectly sculptured lips - they would curve and dip at just the right places and they looked soft in the pictures and were even softer the first time I tasted them.

But what is love in this world? They confuse every syllable of it with lust - an undying temptation for more and more skin while a complete condemnation of everything which lies within. I wouldn't say mine was lust or even love - I would rather put my experience with her as an enchantment - a story which seemed like an illusion yet was beautifully alive at the same time. Sometimes I had to pinch my skin to see whether our love affair was a reality or a mere figment of my imagination. 

And sometimes I would realise the sheer enormity of what we were doing - the path we were taking - of undying trust, of restless and relentless love - of a relationship that had the capacity to maim us both. If that would happen, we would have maroon in the blood and then maroon in our brick grave - but atleast we would have maroon - my favourite shade.