There is an empty hole that can not be filled. You’d think it would be black.
It’s iridescent with the colour of guilt that changes with the angle from which it’s viewed;
It’s yellow with anguished feelings of lost friendship, and yet a simmering, conflicted optimism;
There is some black. A slow festering; a misunderstood nagging accusation of selfishness that shouldn’t be there;
A leafy green of freedom runs throughout but hints at a jealousy that the power to choose came, although not easily, without restraint;
The burning, fiery red of hatred and abandonment forces the other colours away, and protects from the lemony yellow;
Memories are murky white, and they form and dissolve as quickly as clouds gusting by. Sometimes you have to squint to see them, and if you listen you can hear them whisper:
You did this
I love you
Why couldn’t you save me?
A hole, a hollow space... a depression.
Not really empty at all.

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