The colour of roses,
the colour of blood.
The colour of passion
that comes like a flood.
The colour of my heart,
painted by you.
The colour you won’t notice on me,
no matter what I do.
The colour of her lips,
and the marks she leaves
on your skin.
The colour of the original sin.
The colour I feel,
so real it hurts.
The colour of my unspoken words.
The colour of her dress when she twirls,
the colour of your cheeks when you look at her.
The colour I hide when
it sweeps over me like the tide.
But it’s not the colour that tells me
I can’t be with you.