but then again, yellow was the color of the july sunsets we missed when we were puppeteering the glitches in our words. it was the color of autumn — its night, when we first made out and left permanent scratches on the hood of your daddy's car, its leaves - a deep feuille morte; detached, detached, detached.
like the scent of my hair from yours.
it was the color of the light — back when we lived for early morning kisses on coffee-stained tables, when the world was still asleep. it was the color of the first sunray that crept through my blinds after two days of raining — darling, that was day 4 after you left.
it was the color of the rose petals — a mess on the floor as we listened to a bulk of lonely playlists — love, it would take corrosive agents to dismantle the songs — and probably the memories too, that unlike you, refuse
but then, you are to me as yellow was to van gogh.
but then, it was under the bouts of madness that he ate the paint, thinking that happiness could be ingested.
and darling you are to me as yellow was to van gogh.