People called you the gray flower; black against white,
and you never believed, when I rephrased the lines.
A tight bud you contained yourself in, so did they see?
just the contours of your figure or the colors filled in.
I savored all of you, to the least bits and fragments,
from wispy petals of silver clouds, to the leaves kissed black.
And my fingertips traced sweet pathway, sculpted in your veins,
the ridged patterns, of the tales you never spelt.
For who resented the rain, I poured my heart out,
and with the essence of myself, I painted you red.
Till the ink transfigured, added richness to your hues,
black against red, you were an exotic bloom.
But like the thin ice fleet, my colors settled on you,
to tarnish the beauty, of the flower that glows.
So you shed them off to earth, in a crimson rain,
a fraction of beautiful moment, all blown away.
I look at my sore hands now, blistered and hurt,
that held on too long, to hopeless spirals of thought.
So I tell myself again and again, that colors fade away,
and black against white, you were forever gray.