When he is with me all I see is color. I wake up to hazel, green-blue, or even sometimes green eyes that match mine, often a shade of Kelly-green and my reflection fills the round black pupil perfectly, dilated so that I can see my face as if it were a mirror. On days of forlorn, I witness clear and colorless tears that turn his beautiful cheeks and the edges of his nose a scarlet red, like the fictional character I was to be named after, the same one that inspired me to forgive him and invoke an immaculately pure white cleanse of heart, because, after all, tomorrow is another day. I did indeed think of some way to get him back, my personal Rhett Butler. My determination was as passionate as the deepest purple, a favorite of his, but burned as hot as the blue depth of a flame.
The night I met him was painted a vibrant shade of pink, the tickle-me shade that was a childhood favorite of mine, emblematic of pink gingham bedroom curtains and fringe around my bed, or the feminine membrane that was once my innocence, which he and only he now holds in his large hands, sheathing mine; the black along his knuckles and dirt under his nails from a hard day's work. My Sweet, the long way to go, with work and life, just as we all do, has someone to meet him halfway like the silver fork lodged into the asphalt, to be his other reflective option at the crossroad.
When he visits my bed at the sparest of moments we watch my all-time favorite movies or follow a conversation when the gray of boredom lulls, trailing into deep and candid shades, a true blue.
When sleep pours into my body and my face wallows with exhausted bags beneath my eyes he knows it is time for rest. With his arms he pulls me into golden slumbers for the midnight blue night until yellow crawls into my room, across our shut eyelids, illuminating a red glow a blood flow beneath my eyes, retreating from my heart where he belongs.
Every aspect of us as one is- however- completely colorless for we are both penetrating reflections of our hearts' desires.