i always thought of heartbreak to be a black and white gleam,
a yin-yang of the breaker and the broken,
the damaged and the damager.
but only it wasn't.
people always left their own hearts more broken when they broke others',
because when you break glass, you destroy your own hand
as much as the glass you shatter.
heartbreak was some sort of a bittersweet medicine,
i suppose. more bitter,
but sweet nonetheless.
heartbreak had its own colours.
purple for the hand you bruised in anger.
yellow for the unstoppable tears.
red for your bleeding heart.
white for their broken shards.
black for the aftermath.
but then again,
when was black considered a colour?
||Dedicated to Suchira for being such an awesome reader for such a long time||
YOU ARE READING
Prismatic Memories
Poetry"i. they tell me they cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. scie...
