catharsis

seven.

he is art

etched into the soft pink of my brain matter.
when i close my eyes, i can see his figure
painted with different shades of blue
outlined with indigo
his cheeks are navy
his lips, carved into water-coloured canvas,
are cerulean
the tips of his hair, sharp edged and royal
and that spark in his eye is a lighter shade

portraits of him
lined up in the hallways of my mind
not like trophies,
but memories i wanted to keep
even though he has not left
not yet
but i know, he will soon
so for now

i will appreciate every stroke
of my brush,
every tap of my keyboard,
every shade of sky
i can muster up the imagination to think of
i will bask under that shade

in the corner of his eyes
that is lighter than the deep of his pupil
and i will let my thoughts
run wild with blue youth
and purple love

for now i will forget i am red
right now, i am anything
but scarlet
and the sunset

i am not even pink today

i am as blue as the paintings of the boy in my head

and no, blue is not sad

it is how calm he makes me feel
how he creates a serene
appreciation
in my blood which was
flowing to fast to function

he is the stillness
of the surface of a pond
the silence before
the raging monsoon
the sky after the moon has left,
and the sun has not arrived
the colour of the ocean bed,
right at the bottom
the wind against sweaty skin
after a long hike

he is art

- t.f.