White

An absence.

The way you were completely devoid of passion, and how that detachment eventually drained my fervour too.

The colour you dunked your whole body in, after you left. It clung to your hair and covered up the pastel of your laughter and the neon of your love.

The moon lamenting with me every night and disappearing every day (like you did), but coming back (like you didn’t).

The glinting knife of happiness plastered across your face, seemingly designed to make me bleed.

You, burying my pain in the nearest soft soil, letting the snowflakes fall in layers over it. Me, plunging your happiness into my eyes, crying tears of blood - red drops on pristine white.

The silence you wrapped around my throat because you knew I craved closure more than I ever needed you.

The apathy spread across your face like ashes.

My closure, found in the shades of the past; in the way you treated me.

My closure - the realisation that I never needed it, I just thought I did. And really, you weren’t keeping anything from me, just showing your true colours (or lack thereof).