on deep red.
if you have never seen deep red,
start here.
brick-red.
old buildings store heat because somebody has to remember every summer that ever happened.
sometimes at midnight,
they give it back.
if you press your ear against the wall,
you can hear july still breathing.
cherry-red.
every cherry contains a tiny twin.
one becomes sweetness.
the other becomes the sentence
you almost said
before deciding to grow older instead.
velvet-red.
once
every theatre curtain refused to open.
they had discovered
that applause hurt less
than goodbyes.
they stayed closed for seven years.
everyone watched the silence
instead.
cathedral-red.
there are churches
that ring their bells
only when somebody forgives themselves.
people think
they've been abandoned.
they haven't.
they're waiting.
wine-red.
all forgotten conversations
sink
to the bottom of glasses.
that is why
sometimes,
after the last sip,
you suddenly remember
someone
you promised not to miss.
letter-red.
every unopened letter
grows
a second heartbeat.
by winter
they have learned
the names
of everyone
who was afraid to read them.
rust-red.
keys
dream
of doors
that were demolished years ago.
every morning
they wake up
a little older.
secret-red.
there is a room
behind the tongue
where unsaid things
grow antlers.
at night,
they scrape gently
against your teeth
asking
to be let out.
ember-red.
fires never die.
they simply
become
small stubborn animals
living
inside ash,
waiting
for someone
to believe
them
again.
deep red.
if you have never seen it,
listen carefully.
the next time
someone laughs
too loudly
in a quiet room,
look
at the silence
afterward.
it always arrives
holding
deep red
by the hand.
on baby blue.
if you have never seen baby blue,
begin
before morning has remembered its own name.
sky-blue.
every dawn
the sky tries on a lighter heart
just to see if today
will be easier to carry.
sometimes
it fits.
sometimes
the birds have to lift the corners for it.
distance-blue.
every road
is secretly
trying
to become
the horizon.
they never do.
still,
every evening,
they practice.
window-blue.
there are windows
that refuse
to close
during summer.
not because
they are broken.
because
the night
gets lonely
without somewhere
to visit.
they collect
crickets,
the smell of rain,
and conversations
people thought
they whispered.
phone-light blue.
at three in the morning,
every phone
glows
for someone.
even the ones
that never ring.
they are practicing
hope.
midnight-blue.
darkness
isn't black.
that is only
what people
who sleep early
believe.
stay awake
long enough
and midnight
begins
remembering
its colour.
lake-blue.
lakes
borrow
pieces of sky
every afternoon.
they always
intend
to return them.
but evening
arrives
too beautifully,
and they forget.
porcelain-blue.
teacups
keep
small oceans
inside them.
that is why
the last sip
always tastes
slightly
like goodbye.
storm-blue.
every thunderstorm
is simply
the sky
trying
to put itself
back together
too quickly.
baby blue.
it is quieter
than people think.
it doesn't ask
to be loved.
it leaves
the curtains open,
lets the wind
wander through,
and waits
for someone
to realise
they have been
calling peace
by the wrong name.
on butter yellow.
if you have never seen butter yellow,
begin
before the kettle has finished singing.
window-light yellow.
every morning,
the sun
slips
a small square
of warmth
onto the floor.
it waits there
patiently,
certain
someone
will need it.
honey-yellow.
bees
do not make honey.
they collect
tiny forgotten pieces
of summer
and hide them
inside glass jars
for winter
to find later.
butter-yellow.
there are kitchens
where laughter
never leaves.
it settles
into wooden tables,
into chipped mugs,
into the sleeves
of people
who stay
long after
the tea
has gone cold.
lemon-yellow.
every lemon
contains
one small sun
that agreed
to become fruit.
that is why
even sourness
can brighten
a room.
dandelion-yellow.
children
never blow
the seeds away.
the flowers
simply become
too curious
about the wind
to stay rooted.
candle-yellow.
flames
are tiny librarians.
they spend
their evenings
reading darkness
until it remembers
how to become
a room again.
apricot-yellow.
there are afternoons
that ripen
instead of ending.
people think
they are passing.
really,
they are learning
how to linger.
blanket-yellow.
every blanket
keeps
the shape
of the last person
who felt safe
beneath it.
that is why
they grow warmer
the longer
they are loved.
butter yellow.
it is not
the colour
of happiness.
happiness
is far too loud.
it is the colour
of someone
leaving
the porch light on
long after
everyone else
has gone to sleep,
just in case
you are still
finding
your way home.