You are pink.
It is a bright, garish, loud colour, that leaves me wincing,
Shading my eyes as though hiding from a rising sun.
And even hours after you are gone, you’re still here with me,
Ghosts of your image line my eyelids, that I cannot rid them of.
Awake, asleep, alone; you are with me, and I,
I don’t know what to do with that.
You are yellow.
It is a soft, buttery colour, melting on warm toast in the morning.
It is a buttercup; small, though standing proud in a sea of green.
It is a sun, though this one’s soothing my skin with the newness of its heat,
And some days, when I don’t know myself, it is a bumblebee,
Müllerian mimicry in all its glory.
But what is it you are warning me against?
You are azure.
Midnight, when under a canopy of stars, we are entwined together.
Ocean, when crest by crest, wave by wave, we are revealed.
Cerulean, when you are endless, fathomless, flawless.
And I swear some deity replaced your irises with lapis,
And I am but a golden fleck
That one day, you will blink away.
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