Looking now at the red flags of someone I've said reminded me of the color purple, who once made me feel a serene blue like the darkened sky, and then plunged into a deep brown, almost reddish.
Our love was a rich palette: sometimes black and gold, so rich, sometimes lilac and opaque cyan, so soft, sometimes orange and pink, so fiery. However, it turned gray: cheap, rough, and cold. It burned and turned into ashes. Silence hung transparent and hazy. There was something behind it, although it was impossible to discern what it was. A part of me knew that something so obvious was there, something that resembled someone else. Betrayal manifested as white: simple, glaring, and excessively clear.
Our skins, yours brown and mine in lighter tones, never blended well. You were like water, eager to merge with me, while I was oil paint, which works best alone and pushes you away. Drops were never your style; you were a full cup. This was my fear: losing my own colors after feeling you spill over me.
The world became monochromatic when I realized that you had ceased to be my muse and had become just a pretty face for someone else, surrendering to a vandal when you had a true artist within your reach. You had the brush and chose to paint a wall in ruins instead of a canvas; you had the pen and opted to scribble on papers instead of drawing artworks; you had the dawn and chose not to rise, instead of painting the sky. The world regained its colors when I woke up and realized that I had managed to erase the graffiti you made on my heart. I moved forward, allowing my art to shine beyond the shadows, like a star that continues to sparkle even when the clouds of indecision dissipate, like a poetess who finds inspiration in new souls.
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