Faded.

They say the marks that people leave in your life are often memories or scars, but he left his marks in colors. He left them in a rainbow that fell into too many shades of too many colors.

He was no artist, but he absentmindedly drew me with his hands. And his finger prints on my skin were the reflection of his soul in an unimaginable amount of colors that I never knew existed.

He was no painter, but he painted an image of me that I couldn't paint myself. And when he left, the colors did too. And my life became faded, with neither the shades of red nor blue.