The Colors of Love

Chapter 1:

Can you tell me why love is such a despicable game? I can tell it’s my heartstrings, that you are playing. Oh tell me love, why does your voice leave me in pain? You are rolling the dice and I’m waiting in vain.

The rays of neon lights blur in my sight, as I step affirmingly to hide that I am all alone and scared of the night. The messages you sent, like the secretive song of a siren, spread like silken white waves, swimming along the seams of my soul’s cave. Nestled in that sunken part of me, all is silent, as I sink. I sink so deeply into a colorless sea, that there is no saving grace at the end of my plea. It’s as if you subtly whispered words veiled in white, that you never said. Ones you never even sent.

Why do your words feel like brushes to my heart? You speak so incredibly smart, so humble and loving and kind and understanding, yet you are funny, why do you seem to have no ending? In this all-diminishing rose-colored darkness, you channel my desire into desolate particles of deep-pink dust, that turn into rust, in a little crust, on my light pink glasses, that blurs my sense of altertness. And then I stay, in inertness. Ignoring the weirdness of this moment’s absurdness.

Can you tell me why love is such a despicable game? I scream it’s my heartstrings, that you are playin’. Oh tell me, love, why does your voice leave me in pain? You are rolling the dice and I’m waiting in vain.

Much too small for even a scooter to pass through, but with dim lights, rough concrete walls, and red graffiti, the best place for me and you. Just the thought makes my reality fade, like a drop of blood on the tip of a knife, ready to escape. As I desperately bade, for your absence to allow a breath from this torturing blade, I gasp at a the magnificent crimson stain, as I realized you never forced me, I just obeyed.

A rage builds in me, entangled in yellow flames. Like the sour juice of lemons spitting on a fresh heartbreak. I mute your messages, hope you see my disinterest, in every missed “good morning” I swallow and turn my head by mere inches. I don’t see you. I don’t hear you. I don’t feel you. I don’t smell you. I don’t taste you. Because I don’t trust you. And yet my mind sometimes evades its prison, and looks past the bright sunrays of my skepticism. I catch a glimpse of your shoulder and neck, lined with a tattoo looking like a line of fume from a fire at sunset. It looks savage and sultry and like you are not one to trust, but what must it taste like if my lips and tongue trailed it, like sweetness mixed with lust?

Can you tell me why love is such a despicable game? I can tell it was my heartstrings, that you were playin’. Oh tell me love, why has your voice left this little spot in my brain? You are all over me now, and if you asked for my life I’d laugh and bow.