Blue,
the colour of your hair
the day we met. i was eighteen, you were older
by a year. your eyes rested on me & narrowed,
then you asked why mine were so. . .
Red.
i laughed & said dust flew into them.
there was no way i was going to let you know
i had been crying. you offered to blow on them
& i let you. let you come so close your hair brushed
on my cheeks, & i could smell your fragrance;
light, with a touch of spring, like a little daffodil,
which i soon found out is your favourite kind
of flower. i guess you love them so much because they are. . .
Yellow,
which happens to be your favourite colour. seems appropriate,
because you were the sun
bouncing off the surface of a calm lake,
warm butter melting on the face of a dry biscuit,
as enchanting as the evening sky painted
by god’s own fingers to give
a pretty shade of. . .
Orange;
under which i would hold your hand
& watch the corner of your lips curve
into a smile. i loved how you smiled
with your eyes,
how you laughed
from your belly
kissed,
with your tongue,
how you loved to sit in the shade
of trees, & i would see
how much you felt at home
under the canopy of . . .
Green.
you always tried in vain to pluck
a leaf or two & i would
tease you for being so short.
i loved how you’d laugh, stick out your tongue,
& tell me i wasn’t any taller.
i still have your laugh
stuck in my head, only now,
it is a bad aftertaste, like when you drink
ribena & it leaves your tongue. . .
Violet.
i roll your crazy stories in my mouth
when i stare at the ceiling, before closing my eyes
to sleep. & sometimes, when i step into grey
mornings, the sun forces me to think of you,
& then gets shrouded by clouds,
like everything seems to do now, ever since you told me
to stop holding your hand,
calling you
my rainbow.
i dread nights, because all
the sky greets me with is. . .
Indigo.
a thick carpet of darkness, spread above my head
reminding me of the times i would look up,
& boast that i no longer needed the stars.
forgetting you has been harder than i hoped
it would be, as every colour reminds me of you.
i am a man haunted by ghosts,
a pillaged city,
a broken church, shipwrecked, slowly
dying, drowning
in blue.
YOU ARE READING
Endless. Blue
Poetry"the day you first told me you loved me, it was hot, the sun picked at our skins like god was trying to kill us with a magnifying glass. . ."
