There are mornings
whose blues are unspeakable,
whose yellows are far too dandelion
to dilute under sun.
You should have died in November.
when loss spins a darker color wheel,
those reds rotting to brown.
I could paint longing siphoned to straw,
brightened with blood kissed from my fingers
caught on the skeletons of roses.
There is room for loss
even in blooming. I can mourn
you vineless, thornless,
open as the hole I tear in fabric
over my chest, where my heart was.
We are playing with color over at dVerse today, and I thought this fit well.