Long and lithe fingers,
comfort moulded into cones,
is where art kisses geometry
and meets one of its own.

Her hands are to touch
manicured and glazed,
you feel home and lost
a Pharaoh now, and next a waif

The nails, you find and wonder
filed for a student and trimmed.
Not a wisp of colour
bare as a bone, naked and skinned.

Snug in a life song,
a pallbearer of untold griefs,
they are a stark sight
of colourless coral reefs.  

On but a blue moon,
they’re a savoury rare,
when hungry eyes feast
on the riotous fair.

Why, one day, I ask thee?
She would smile and wouldn’t tell.
‘Never felt like’,
is her No Comment.

and suddenly i can see them, colours
like i've been so oblivious to their existence before.
i notice the yellow rim around my towels
and the redness of my lips,
the shampoo bottle is actually blue
and my scrunchies reflect deep purple.
like my eyes and my soul have become desensitised to the beauty surrounding my life.
A life full of colour.
I don't want to merely exist anymore,
I am happy to be alive.

red was the blood, like blossoms in July
orange tinted lips, the ones that told me good bye
yellow was the stairwell, the last place you went
green was your text, the last text you sent
blue were your tears, shimmering like gold
purple was your face as your body lay cold
white were the lilies, for which you were named
white were the lilies, the ones I lay on your grave.

we could be your paint box,
     whistling -
               down -
the faded margin of,
my lined paper.

from puffs of cerulean blue,
to a teaspoon of burnt umber,
half-stirred with a wooden spoon,
we could paint a supernova

                           ...go ahead passing souls
glance and say:
'What clashing tones!
What a mess they are bound to make.'

but listen my little russet-eyes:
for the grass will never be,
greener on the other side,
when we are every hue of green;
when we are all the colours.

A wash of blue
            
             Cool, calm.

Brush strokes on canvas

              Subtle, sweet.

Ocean eyes

               Pure, pretty.

Unfiltered sky

                Lucid, lush.

My kind of blue.

The ***-bellied Mercedes squealed
As Meursault withdrew and
Marvelled at the flames
Licking
The air
Like marigolds on Ritilin.
'Raymond would have no reason not to admire this act.'
He stopped by a shimmering sea of Ubers.
The scrape and drawl of siren made no impression on him.
Leaking smoke reminded him of
Snow White’s Cottage
Where he had taken Marie when Lucie was born:
The place where he would go out at dawn to chop wood.
He liked the way her roses played
With the restlessness of children.
Then he thought: 'if only mother could see me now.'