You do to me what lilac would’ve done to the purple hues of the 6.40 pm sky seen from the rooftop where we promised to stargaze, but never did. 
You feel like two drops of cologne sprinkled with itar from the nearby mosque, like solitude, like tranquility.
You are the colour of the veins of your armpit just before the moment it turns blue when the needle sucks blood out of you like you suck breath out of me.
You are the orchids on your sister’s wedding, the nailpaint she chose to match not with her dress but with the flowers in her bun.
You are something that is almost there, almost violet, but somehow never enough to become a part of the rainbow that we teach children to love and adults to loathe.
You’re like the taste of beer on my lips that isn’t strong enough but not forgotten, like the balloon I wish I’d bought that evening, like the icing on the vanilla cake on your nineteenth birthday, when you’d proudly said you’ve outgrown chocolate but never got close to relishing the icing either.
You’re the sky that I wish to touch but can’t not because I don’t have wings but because they haven’t seen birds of my colour yet. When you’re blue, I’m away, and when you’re almost white, I’m the thunder that sneaks in through your edges.
I could be any of the shades in your make up kit, but wearing me would be kind of revolutionary, and you were always the conforming type.
In this world full of colours, when most people are colorblind when it comes to me, I know you’ll see me anyway, for you are coarse white canvas and I am the dissolving violet paint.


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