Describe the color purple without using the word.
It is the color of his shirt at 5 in the afternoon, reflecting the hues of the inked skies with its highlights and shadows. He loved wearing it because it symbolizes the color of your first conversation, calm yet ready. It is the color of the ground underneath the both of you, uncertain yet just right. It is the color of his eyes, dark and at the same time heavy, like lead. You look right through it and see the piercing gaze of a person with a huge heart, yet all at the same time afraid. It is the feeling of his hands holding yours tightly until it becomes a faint bruise. It suddenly becomes too much to handle and you’re left in agonizing pain as the world suddenly stops.
It is the color of his skin, bombarded with bruises that he has hidden for so long from you—bruises from his past that he decided not to show, fearful that if you saw it, you would let go. But you don’t. Instead, you embrace the colors of its marks, determined to stay still and steady. It is the color of his words, unsure of the next to come. It is the color of his neck as your lips dance along to his body, fearless and reckless. It is the pulse of his heart as you listen intently, knowing well enough that it syncs perfectly to the sound of the pulse your heart makes. It is the color of the wind, ready to engulf you along with it.
And finally, it is the sound of his voice, scarred and wounded but never backing down. It is the color of the signs he continuously manifests, in hopes that they will reach out to you. Yet it never does. Instead, you translate his colors to a romantic manner, instead of an uncertain, friendly gesture. You are mistaken of his colors, blindly allowing yourself to be engulfed in a world of fallacy. You are unaware but it is the color of fabricated lies, bound to pierce your heart like the color of sharp knives ready to go through. It is suddenly not his colors anymore, but rather, the colors of what he once was.