It's the velvet of the petals on a trimmed rose, the feeling of your fingers as you push back her hair to put the flower in place.
It's the tenderness of her hands on your shoulders.
It's the shade of your lips as they meet together, the swirling tendrils of passion in the air.
It's the dusting over your cheeks, the blush highlighting her smile, the air between your souls.
It's the grip of hands and wrists, the feiriness of held back emotions, the glow of a television long forgotten.
But it's also the shade of pain.
The dark depths of a hollow heart. The empty feeling with a heavy mind.
It's faded fire of being forgotten, ashes pushed away.
Pent up indignation, never to see the lightened hues.
It's a pigment of never being first, never the best.
Twisted, waisted, poisoned and toxic.
