turquoise jagged blue streaks against her fore-arm, some would believe it to be from the multiple shots of continuous melancholy she swallowed drip by drop almost coloured like the underside of cyan nearly opaque seashells the tone she’d flicker in and out like the rays of light only paler -- in hopes of finding, all the while searching.

searching for what, you question? what to search for, you’ll continue to question without punctuation to cut. you. off. mid. sentence.

she never spoke breath fainter than the splash of dull watercolour you’d leave against your canvas, the one you never brought home.
collecting dust above her eyelids the pair that kept the blackened inverted world shut and disclosed. curtains without colour of any sort be it blue or red, it lacked the hues you could have used when you left home for the weekend.

weekends were fire escapes the kind that you’d paint a shade of moon one that catches like nearly a reflection you were and still are replacing with your shadow the one that darts outta the door each time steps are heard creeping in.

you can’t leave me if it was never meant to be.