I want her lavender.
A soft stroke of paint on the white canvas. The flower. The scent. The color of amethyst and the sky.
She was bubblegum pink. The taste in your mouth of something so sweet but never long lasting. She was fleeting. The breeze of cherry blossoms in the summer wind. Pink hills in the sunset with california howling.
She was yellow. Smile like the sun, her radiance was motivating. Made me want to be better and find a comfort in spring. Said I liked the sound of jazz even though I hated it. Monarch butterflies in my stomach when we touched.
She was blue. Eyes like fall trees and warmth when her leg was draped over mine. Her heart cold, her mind closed like the blinds of a window refusing to let the light in. I wanted to bring the statue to life. Scarab beetles in my stomach burrowing up into my mind.
She was orange. A summer of my childhood resonates in her laugh - a summer of a cloudy memory at 13 of a stolen fruit and a locked door. Her hands feed me nothing when my mind says I can feed her everything. Her heartache terrifies me. Her eyes, that's another story.
I am white. Piping hot fury inside, boiling to a bubble and overspilling into my eyes. Clenched teeth and fists - the bones ready to snap. The static of wind howling, the peace of snow on the highest mountain top. I fade all the colors out into a pastel palette of confusion and the unknown.
Do you even want me?
I'm so gay.
YOU ARE READING
The Swallows and the Sunsets
PoetryI tend to find meanings in things not intended to have one.
