you come home drunk.
not on wine or on spirit,
but on him.
and you know the colours
before you even sit down to paint.
the grass beneath your bodies
is a vibrant shade
(of B274 Emerald Green).
it's a windy september morning
and you lay sprawled; tangled and free.
him,
with his dark jacket
hiding a restless soul underneath-
out of place in a field of flowers.
yet you,
with your loose flannels
and a quivering heart,
fit right in.
there's a murky pond nearby
(you paint it in D46 Viridian Green Light).
the lilied waters ripple and lull,
but neither of you pay attention.
instead you talk and you laugh,
and he takes your hand in his.
his thumb brushes a ring around your little finger
and he looks at you, quizzical.
it was a gift from your sister, you tell him.
the ring is all but a fading silver band
with a stone embedded within,
(D47 Viridian Green Deep)
and it glimmers still.
now it is noon, and the sun is high.
your feet are in the water
and he lies nearby,
weaving you a crown of daisies
the colour of A4 Opaque White.
with a proud flourish,
he presents it to you
and although it's nothing but a dainty little thing
bound to come apart by the end of the night,
made of wildflowers and slim blades of grass,
you place it over your head.
Your fingers are careful, delicate-
like the crown were made of diamonds instead.
he moves close then,
and you catch a whiff of his scent-
lemongrass, as always
(he knows you adore it).
he gazes skywards, and his eyes are soft-
their colour as if it were stolen for him alone
from the fabric of the heavens above
(B259 Old Holland Blue Grey-
watered down just enough).
part of what he's made of
always wishes to return to the skies,
and he yearns.
hours pass;
the sun sets over the horizon
and a minute later,
a bluebird lands on the edge of the pond.
you both stay very, very still,
simply watching.
(she is a brilliant B265 Turquoise Blue Deep).
she chirps and flutters and flits
and is gone the next moment.
you bid her goodbye
and you secretly hope she wishes you well too.
evening arrives then, through a net of twinkling stars,
dressed in a shimmering C232 Caribbean Blue.
you light a candle to ward away the night,
and he laughs
but he never stops you.
there is silence now, perfect and profound.
seconds tick by, and suddenly he sits up.
the colours shift with him.
he lights a cigarette,
with the flame of your candle,
and he says,
"give away the end, victor."
you breathe out when he says your name,
and he turns to look at you.
"give away the end. Tell me we make it."
his eyes are no longer soft.
"tell me it's us."
so you do.
and when you go home drunk in the night,
you paint him this picture.
YOU ARE READING
First Drafts - An Ensemble
PoesíaA collection of my own written pieces- ranging from poetry written with an unhealthy mindset to short stories packed with nostalgia to excerpts, drabbles or spin-offs based off stories or roleplays of mine that are in progress.