colors.

 

orange.
it used to speak
like sinatra
on sundays. soft voice
that she let drift
in whispers meant
only for my ears.
when words
tasted opaque
and I felt.

then, I felt.

like a brick
meeting my chest
one beat short of
a chorus.
she aged my hands
like burning paper
when they left the comfort
of her palm.
so I walked.
and then
that was when orange
meant the world

when
the skies
they cried at departure
and stars said
to hell with the night
I sat there.
head in hands
and I did what hurt less
I penned her
to paper.
and on these nights.
when the skies
they say to hell with the stars.
I read.

and I hear those words
saying
orange
is the color
of happiness.

I stifle a laugh.

and I say
to hell with colors.
and fall apart
in black
and white.