My Grief Is Not Grey

Grief is grey,

That’s what they say.

A dirty smudge of charcoal across the fresh white sheet of life.

But how could you ever be a smudge,

A stain,

A blot on the landscape of my future?

My grief is not grey.

It is the soft whispering pink of your palms,

Taking my hand in yours on the first day of school.

My grief is not grey.

It is the verdant green of the grass on which we sat,

Ice cream melting down our arms on those endless summer days.

My grief is not grey.

It is the ruby red of the wine you poured after a long day,

A juicy berry drop carelessly spilt, left languishing on the counter.

My grief is not grey.

It is the hypnotic azure of your eyes,

Shimmering with sadness, like sunlight dancing atop the ocean’s waves, as the doctor gave your diagnosis.

My grief is not grey.

It is the autumnal russet tones of your favourite top,

That you wore for your final journey.

My grief is not grey,

It is an artist’s palette of infinite colours.

The colours of your life reflecting and refracting through mine.

A prism of love.