In a world painted black and white,
my vision blends into a shade of gray.
The colors swirl in a clockwise motion,
as if rejecting the mixture of pigments.

Slowly, they fuse into a solid gray tincture.
It is a beautiful color.
The right amount of black and white still evident,
yet the trait to be a distinctive color remains.

In a world painted black and white,
we are opted to pick a side.
Two completely different beliefs,
standing upon their own ethical points.

I am caught in between and seek answers.
We ask and wonder where we belong.
But for now, I will dwell in the blotches of gray
in the divisions of monochrome.

Bright eyes turn dull,
wide smiles become
pursed lips and frowns.
The hands which used to
send jolts of electricity through me
become brushes of strangers
in crowded streets.

My heart no longer aches for you,
nor do your eyes consume my thoughts -
No, not like before.

You point out the elephant in the room,
I nod and agree that it's time to go.
It was a good few months.
Maybe it was too rushed
or at the wrong time,
maybe it was someone else.
But nothing was the same anymore.

For they complement moments of
happiness, affection, grief, praise,
in ceramic vases
as a simple centerpiece
in order to add beauty to a setting.

They seem to appear most beautiful
when tucked between the curve of your ear
or framing a crown on your head
in equated colors.

Beauty coordinating beauty
is quite breathtaking.
It is difficult to decipher
which ornament makes the other appear more alluring.

The sight of you
with hued florets laid neatly on your hair was
blooming. Florescence in clusters-
I have lost my train of thought
as each feature
leaves me at awe.

We were never a fan of dialogues.

At the other end of the street I would watch her

Each Monday, carrying a new book every time.

I didn't like to read.

I preferred music, in my opinion
Was the equivalent of a book
Each telling a story.

The cup of coffee in my hand felt as warm as my heart
As I blew the hot liquid from the brim of the cup

And take a picture of her with the smoke that frames her body.

I wrote short poems of how captivating her beauty was
On the greasy table napkins provided for the coffee tables

Producing a different piece each time.

Her mouth would move as she read the words,
Mumbling lines of incoherent sentences I could not decipher.

At times I would see a smile break out on her face
And I would find myself consumed in slight envy.
Would she have smiled at the words I've written for her?

She was a song, I was a poem.

She was first written on smooth paper,
A thoughtless idea jotted in messy handwriting
Soon expanding into a verse and chorus
Written over and over again,
Revised by experts, reviewed until perfection,

Interpreted by bassists, guitarists, drummers, and vocalists
Appreciated repeatedly through the stereos of listeners
As they capture each beat and tempo.
She was flawless.

I was a poem.

I was rewritten in a single document copy
Renamed and revised
From the greasy fingers tapping away on keyboards
Typed and deleted,
Typed and deleted.

Frustrating the writer as they could never get an idea out of me
Leaving me in a file hidden in the folders of an old computer
Unfinished and waiting to be opened.

I was a mess in unorganized stanzas of ideas,

Lines which no one will have the audacity to read,

A waste of time,
Flawed.

She was the perfection in every imperfection
An artwork that you could only love through the eyes.
A piece which I
Wanted in my own.
I watched her again silently and wondered
Is it possible to love someone you've only admired from afar?

Had you known how I lived,
Would you then understand the meaning
of true despair;

Undressed,
Unkept,
Unloved,
Deprived.

A quick fix, probably.
Roses should have little meaning for you.

Beautiful, even if it is only for a time.
Show affection to it by passing it around
Bought by one lover and given to the next.

Let it wilt,
Let the bright petals fade to grey,
To brown,
To black.

Feel the once soft texture against your fingertips
Turn brittle and delicate.
So brittle, it can barely hold itself together.

Affection for a time
For it held little significance,
Merely a tool for the wrong kind of love.

A rose longs to be preserved.
To have its beauty kept
While it is at its most radiant form,

In between pages of classic literature or poetry,
Or cold glasses made of glycerine.
Adore it in the long time, not just for a while.

I speak of roses
As though they were human.
I speak for I am shattered.

Like the ashes on cigarette, I fall.

It left traces of its remnants on your mouth.
The horrible, horrible taste of tobacco,
tasting as they smell.
And yet I still craved the flavor
of the cigarette, as well as your mouth.
Two parlous vices which I wanted to have
until I couldn't breathe.

Like the ashes on cigarette, I burn

The fire would ignite from within me,
fueled by your clout presence
and burn the old, stalwart bridges
of decade-old friendships.
It burns fields of daisies
and carnations that I have tried to bloom.
I am self-destructing in your consent,
you do not seem to mind.

Like the ashes on cigarette,
I am thrown away

Forgotten on a pale ashtray,
a ruined, ugly reminder
You pay no mind to the now apathetic, rolled up paper
as you reach for another stick in your pack,
I had failed to notice that I
was merely the first one you have consumed.

despite his black eyes,
his soul contains the entire
spectrum of colors;