rainbows

I remember everything in blazing colors. A rainbow in my mind invisible to everyone else, something intangible but real to me. I don't think he knows I keep palettes of the colors he reminds me of, daring myself to be brave enough to paint my walls a monochrome gray.

Red. The color of hopeless romance, nauseating blood, something that goes hand in hand with heartbreak. It is also the color I painted my lips the last time I saw him, or the color the tiles were in that dusty hallway I don't have the heart to step in anymore.

And blue. Ferocious blue, the color the sky becomes when a storm is about to pour. I guess, in a way, he was a storm in and of himself, so unpredictable and reckless and delirious. He warned me about his coming, he forecast his moods, but the day he promised a shiny sun, he gave me angry clouds.

Green like the grass beneath me, the exact same shade the curtains in my room were. Those very same curtains witnessed the disappointment and breakage of a little girl who was forced to grow up and begged to change.

Oh, and orange. The leaves fell that autumn, crunching under the soles of my heels. I wore heels that night for him. Not that he'd know. He is oblivious to facts like these. Little details like the orange notebook I poured my thoughts into, the same expendable notebook I decided was not fit to see the light. And so I burned it in vivid, flickering, brave, orange flames.

White. Like daisies, dandelions, roses. Innocence as a promise he took and destroyed, thrashed, cut, bled out. The very same color the pages crumbled by my frustration spurs and hollow words were. White like the color of the shirt I wore all those days ago back in August twenty-fourth, when I did my hair and showed strength. I really had none.

And black. Black, the backdrop that accompanies the moon in its lonesome task of keeping me awake. I visited the stars and told them my weaknesses, though they all somehow managed to spell the same seven-letter word, his name as much as a curse. And black like the color of my favorite jacket on him, or the color of the coat he offered that autumn night. I regret saying no, deciding to shoulder the cold and remain by his side as we walked to my car.

Wine. Her lipstick matching her shirt the same night I gave him a piece of me. He smiled and waved at her, all ludicrous innocence. Wine is the way I imagine she tastes, a color he would trade anything to experience.

Purple like the tiny journal I wrote for fifty-eight days, all those nights I cried and laughed over the same thing. Its color is branded forever in my memory, a vacuum that absorbed my thoughts and self-degrading cuts. I poured my heart into it, so much so with it I handed him a piece of the me I used to be.

Irrevocably, relationships are like rainbows. At least this one was. He was so hard to catch, and something awful like a storm had to soak me through before he decided to show up. I'd stare up at the sky so much rainbows became a signal, an ephemeral thing that means nothing to him but everything to me. He had the ability to fade just as quickly. He'd make his triumphant appearance just to go back hiding behind the curtain, afraid he'd shown too much splendor. For me, it was never quite enough. I'd always cross my fingers hoping he'd come in with the rain, but his arrival was always unexpected. Often times I was just too distraught to catch it. 

I take the brush and tilt my head, staring at the white walls in my room. I don't want to paint them in feeble colors. I want the hues to remind me of the version of him I'd pray about, the image of him my mind conjured up like a tale I was never brave enough to tell. The version of him that never existed.

There's also pink and yellow, but those are unimportant. Colors are what make up a rainbow, though after him, mine became black and white.