you told me my aura was pink when we first met;
a rosy, pulsing bubble
that soon gave way to lilac nights
and obsidian skies,
hearts overlapping like the venn diagrams you always hated to draw in primary school.
you caressed my skin so lightly i sometimes wonder if it was never your fingers at all,
but instead the summer breeze i soon learned to call my home,
the breeze that soon gave way to autumnal rust
and winter chills,
the cold air slipping under my shirt like
the sadness i never asked for.
you told me my aura had turned from coral
to cerulean
to cobalt
to ash
to obsidian, and it reminded you
of the skies we used to leap under.
you told me you had never seen a flower
quite so sad.
i told you that i had never seen my sun
burn brighter.