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Monochrome

His world is only black and white, until...

By Jillian SpiridonPublished 3 years ago 3 min read
1
Monochrome
Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy on Unsplash

The words "black and white" really had no meaning to him,

at least not in the ways normal people construed them,

and he grew up with a world set in shades of sepia

(or that's what the eye specialists told him it was,

given that color as a language was incomprehensible to him).

Instead, he revolved his world around the other senses—

the softness of his mother's curls against his fingers,

the harsh sound of his dad's cough after a cigarette,

the scents of flowers making an impact when colors couldn't.

By Sophie Potyka on Unsplash

It wasn't a bad life, growing up in a colorless expanse.

His setback was just another trait he possessed,

and he felt so much more than he saw anyway.

He liked different textures to study most of all,

such as the solidness of the wood his father carved

or the weight of water when he was in a swimming pool.

Though his mother tried to describe colors in photographs,

he would look past the pictures to the window beyond

and wonder how the winter wind would feel against his skin.

By Siddhant Prasad on Unsplash

Seasons passed, the settings changed, but still color evaded him

all throughout his teenage years and into adulthood,

until the day he was on a bus ride out of the city and noticed

a strangeness in the upper left corner of his vision—

something bright and unavoidable, a trick he didn't anticipate.

A woman held a bouquet of roses—he knew by shape and texture—

and he stared and stared and could not pull away

because the roses were wrong somehow.

He didn't know it then, but the roses were red—his first color.

By Cody Chan on Unsplash

The woman took her bouquet, their petals in full bloom,

and got off the bus ahead of him while he eyed the roses

as if they were some sign of fate—or of impending madness.

"Excuse me," he said, voice shaking, and the woman turned.

"Where did you get those roses?" An innocent question.

She looked him up and down, testing him, assessing him,

until she said, "The florist by the train station. For my mom."

"Oh." He was certain he looked crazy. "They're lovely."

They were normal roses, so what made him see more?

The woman smiled softly. "They specialize in roses."

"Is that so?" Now he was certain he sounded crazy.

Then, uncertain, he held out a hand. "May I have one?"

The woman seemed perplexed, but she ended up nodding.

"Do you have a special date or something?" she asked

as she plucked a rose from the bunch and handed it over.

And all he could do was stare at the richness of what he saw,

enamored in spite of himself. "Something like that."

He thought that was the end after a thank-you and goodbye,

never thinking that it wasn't the rose that was special

but the woman he had let slip through his fingers just like that.

By engin akyurt on Unsplash

Did you enjoy this poem? If so, please leave a heart! I also have more poems, short fiction, and articles over on my profile page. You can also find me on Twitter if you would like to chat writing and craft. Any support is much appreciated!

surreal poetry
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About the Creator

Jillian Spiridon

just another writer with too many cats

twitter: @jillianspiridon

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