I am a poet.
I bleed in violet,
and every shade of blue.
When you read my words,
the page forgets its whiteness,
and you begin to see in colour.
Language dissolves to light,
pain becomes pigment,
memory, hue.
My heart splinters into spectrum,
and somewhere inside the blue,
he moves again,
slowly, like light
through water.
You think you’re reading me,
but it’s both of us you see,
our silhouettes caught
in the same wash of colour.
And by the final line,
you are stained
with the colours
of a love
that now lives in you.
Oct 9, 2025
Oct 9, 2025 at 10:02 PM UTC
I am a poet.
I bleed in violet,
and every shade of blue.
When you read my words,
the page forgets its whiteness,
and you begin to see in colour.
Language dissolves to light,
pain becomes pigment,
memory, hue.
My heart splinters into spectrum,
and somewhere inside the blue,
he moves again,
slowly, like light
through water.
You think you’re reading me,
but it’s both of us you see,
our silhouettes caught
in the same wash of colour.
And by the final line,
you are stained
with the colours
of a love
that now lives in you.
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