Grey

Missing you is like mourning the dead,
The ghosts of every memory of you loom in every corner of this town,
Not threatening,
More like cobwebs you can’t sweep away.

Missing you is driven out by the sun,
But if the air sits a certain way
Or smells like summer
Your face resurfaces in black and white.

Still I am rebuilding, I am watching sunsets again, I am looking at my reflection through new lenses.

The twilight sky pulls me back, though,
When the sun throws the dusty air in my eyes
It reminds me of the algae that forming in that reservoir of memories.

I knew a world that was gold
and dusky blue
and the color of hot breath upon virgin skin.
I knew a world that was as alive and green as the first blade of the grass in spring,
and the peachy hum and fever that accompanies waves of pollen seeping into the April air.

It is in my greyest moments that the memory of your face plays in technicolor