Colours

There was some perfection to it,
That cinematic night.
The giddy nausea of a dream-sprung deja vu
Was immortalised in glorious technicolour,
And the soundtrack remains a teleport
To little truths that shocked us, thawed us,
And drenched me in a new wave of adoration.
But the credits rolled too soon, alas,
And you tried to redefine your sense
That the bleary hours of 4am had blurred.

Little threads of doubt sewed you up,
Until you were a chaotic tapestry -
Mad with colours I couldn’t pick out.
The needles formed in the shape of your past,
An unknown shape to me, a future.
As uncertain as the woozy tide,
You stumbled from path to path,
Blind and drunk on her, your ethanol,
Until you wound up on the same wonky path.
Dreaming is a commodity that I cannot afford.

I wonder if, into my place, you wove her
That night. For was it not her
That you compared me to, her
That tortured your decisions, her
Ghost clinging to your lips?
Everything is her.
-
I, your anomaly, shuffle back
To the room where, in shadows,
And under the light of a misty rain,
Everything is monochrome
Except my dreams.
They are coloured messily with the night.

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