Colour blind

I was born with a brush in my hand, Yet the world withheld its hues. The sky was a whisper of ash and bone,

The grass a lullaby of greys. They told me of crimson sunsets, Of lavender fields in bloom, But I walked in a monochrome dream,

Where even rain had no mood. They called it a lack—this missing of light, A deficit, a fault in the lens.

But what is sight, if not a script That teaches the eye what to bend? I traced faces with my fingers, Mapped joy in the curve of a grin, Learned love not by the red of roses But the way a voice lets you in.

I met her on a slate-blue morning— Though I suppose it was gold to her.

She spoke in colors I could not name But felt in the marrow, sure.

“Do you see the purple?” she asked me once, Pointing at a twilight calm. I shook my head but gave a smile— “I hear it in your palm.”

She wore no pity like perfume, Didn’t draw lines I had to cross. She let me paint in shadows And showed me how to treasure loss.

Her world was stained-glass windows, Mine a sculpture carved from dusk. Together we built a temple Out of contrast, faith, and trust.

But the world kept asking questions, Their voices dipped in code: “How does he know the autumn, If he’s never seen it unfold?”

I told them of the brittle wind, The scent of soil and leaf. Of how her laughter changes pace When seasons start to grieve.

I said: “You see with open eyes, I see with open veins. You paint the sky in pigments, I sketch it through the rain.

You dance in colored dresses, I waltz in breath and sound. You read the world in rainbows— I feel it in the ground.”

They said: “Still, it must be lonely, To miss the world in red.” But I have known a deeper shade Than any palette’s thread.

For love has no color boundary, And truth needs no tint to be real. The soul is not a canvas— It’s the brushstroke that you feel.

So here I stand, not broken, Not waiting to be cured. I am not your faded painting Or your darkness to endure.

I’ve walked through silent gardens And sung in silent choirs. I've loved without the spectrum— With hands, with breath, with fire.

Call me colour blind if you must— But know that I have seen The blinding white of honesty, And the black of thoughts unseen.

I’ve touched a thousand midnights, Heard daylight in her voice. And in a world without your colors, I’ve still made a kind of choice.

To live, not in the shadow Of a sight I’ve never had, But in the light I’ve kindled From every hue you call "sad."

I do not need to see your red To feel the burn inside. For love has always bloomed in me— And love is never colour blind.