Melancholy is the colour of midnight;
a soft hymn of trees,
an orchestra which seeks the one that can hear the melody
of his own soul,
bitter-sweet, prussian blue laced with wine
and unrestrained.
With every touch its fingerprints mark me as its own;
as though a hot coal placed in the center of my chest,
the last of the conversations haunt me,
replays like a boysenberry echo etched—
isn’t it cruelty? The heart refuses to break the other’s
in half,
some of us turn a walk through the arboretum
into sonnets overnight—
slowly the sun replaces the moon,
atomic tangerine dipped into the arms of understanding haze,
I turn
and walk away without a second glance.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest

Grace is our lovely hostess at dVerse where she invites to write about colours in Synesthsia. Come join us! 💝

Posted for Meeting the Bar: Synesthesia @ dVerse Poets Pub