If love means adoration,
given mutually and freely,
then we are not in love.

I cling to the color green,
the hue that tickles the bellies
of spring leaves and erodes quite suddenly
on the skins of ripening fruits.

Before her, I was monochromatic.
I sat high on my ebony throne,
accompanied by the strangled cries
of worshippers who had nowhere else to go.

Perhaps it was it was not love,
deceiving her at her most vulnerable.
I do not regret, though, having something
green to hold onto.