Maybe you think the colour of today is grey.
But it isn't.
It is the intricacy of your iris against the blank of the white.
At first glance, it is grey, but every fleck, every spark is imprinted on my mind.
It is not grey.
It is the rumbling clouds of a storm in your mind, and shining silver when you smile.
It is cold and clear and pierces my soul.
Your iris is made up in hues of a storm;
There is silver and metal and a ring of gold, there are swirls of slate and indigo.
It is the inky mass of your dark hair, head bowed,
your mind invested in the task at hand.
But when the sun finally shines on those ebony strands you realise,
it is actually cedar, and umber, and wood - turned golden like the Tuscan sun.
But in the dark,
under sparkling stars,
it is midnight waves on the nape of your neck.
It is the faded iron of your ring, that bands the finger of your right hand.
That band seems grey, but it is not.
The hammered metal sparks in the lights of the stars that night -
you know the one I mean.
That band was no longer iron and cold,
but was made solely of shadows and light.
It is the bronzed glow of the skin on your arms.
Honey and almond and
flecks of white scars.
It is more than this though.
It is the slowly purpling bruises across your knuckles and
the labyrinth of teal and azure and olive beneath your skin.
It is the dusting of flaxen freckles that only arrive in the late summer.
It is the ivory of the shirt you wore when we last met.
Ten weeks ago; and yet,
not a day goes by when my mind isn't coloured by
thoughts of you and your white shirt.
Today is all the colours I cannot see.
It is all the colours that make up you.
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