The Color of It All

My heart is grey

Not the black, the abysmal, forever

It makes me recognize the old faces.

Not the purple bruises of trying again.

It prevents me from seeing new faces

Not the white, nor the pure and golden

Not the red bursting at the seams of containment

Not the blue of melodrama that accompanies mournful lovers

Red, red has its possibilities. It was red that got us in this predicament to begin with.

It is the grey of a cloudy day, the storm that will pass through

It cannot be blue nor purple, for I have no right to be dramatic

It cannot be white, white has never loved.

But for now it leaves this fog clouding me.

It cannot be the perfection of gold.

And no one has left any bruises.