Grey, and a colourful lover

I had been writing in grey strokes, straight lines, no calligraphy

so I missed every colour my mind went to whenever I thought of you

You, with that stagger on your bicycle last summer by the pool

hands waving in excitement, a red shirt and a bucket hat with three little—

stars

those stars in our sky, that summer in July, I had started to fall apart, but you caught me, antecedent to falling too far

so I’ve travelled wide and fast, in a place as constrained as their minds, to find that slight smile and to say thank you for bringing me alive

I had been writing in grey strokes, straight lines, no calligraphy

so I ignored a pink feeling, my swollen sore nipples, sensuality, milk and the likes

You, with that mad scientist look, nervous your lips might be too dry

still you placed your hands on my face and the kiss was warm and toffee unlike the merciless—

winter

that winter was nice, that winter was dry and I might have cried and feasted a few thousand too many times

so you carried me up and down, because I had a case of the blues, to remind me your hands would always be big enough to cover every new inch of my layered belly

I had been writing in grey strokes, straight lines, no calligraphy

so I ignored the yellow feeling of happiness and my favourite memory of you

You, with those tears in your eyes, when I managed to say yes, yes darling yes, you can always call me mine

the room was empty and no one would have clapped, but we were loud and it had to be your heart because she dances always, with rhythms way too—

fast

we rode a bit too fast, we loved a bit too fast, we broke a bit too fast, you knew a lot too fast

so we cried with our sweaty hands locked, when we realised love can be tough, and ours, would have to be from afar

I reminded you, that you’re all you could ever want, you’re yours forever but I am still and eternally, always yours

I had been writing in grey strokes, straight lines, no calligraphy

but this time the spirits of the sombre colours started to come alive

Me, with my face buried in my teal cotton pillows, as they sang your name in unison, my hands trying to reach for you and my face covered in—

grief

but the grief could never last, because the lover who gave me butterflies, cannot be represented with two shades of grey, like a common housefly

so I’ve tried to remember you with the colours my mind pencils through

I became a poet and almost a painter, just to write about you, my lover, my reflection, in the colourful way that is sincere to you.