**I wrote this while I was on sabbatical. No longer applicable but wth, still pretty.**
I see colors in your eyes. Red like misguided anger welting a slap across your cheek. Green like energy bubbling in nervous spurts as our eyes meet. Purple, blue, black, brown. You know the color I want to see. You mix your hues with my moods till you play my ebbs and tides with your passions.
And now. All I have is gray. I can't read gray. It's a quiet death, the kind that should come in your sleep. Gray like virgin spinsters at eighty, silenced purdahs, like the long-gone red of roof tiles pounded into submission by driving sleet. Death that comes in the prime of life to steal your senses. Deceptively peaceful anesthesia. I don't want peace. Does that make me suicidal?
When the accidental grazing stops, wounds fester and heal. So they say. If only I could get myself to stop yanking at the Band-Aid to check. If only I could remember that you're exceptionally good at pulling off Band-Aids so it never hurts. But that doesn't cure the wound, does it?
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