The Violet Haze

Pre-heartbreak, apparently. I reckon this is more of a prose than a poem. Definitely not a story, so I'm going with prose poetry.

I remember when she first held my hand, kissed my knuckles and as she kissed each knuckle, my blood rushed through my whole body in a way that it had never rushed before. It was like electric shocks from her lips, through my arm, to my brain and finally to my heart, and in that exact moment, I knew what love was. I knew what lust was, I knew what passion was. I knew it all; the things poets wrote about, what people sang about, what artists painted about. Love. Love, love love. And there it was, in front of me, kissing my knuckles, kissing each knuckle gently and the air was crisp and I felt it bite through my clothes, but I was too drunk in love to care. Love was in me. Love that had a name: Violet.

Violet now was everything. Violet now was everywhere. She was with me from morning until night-time, from the first sunbeams over my drowsy lips, until the moon shone through my window blinds. We, wrapped in love, wrapped in each other, listening to the breathing of eternal tenderness. Sometimes time is gooey and soft and gluey, some days time flows slower and minutes become hours, and she’s there; smiling, crying, laughing, touching.

Touching. Touching. Touching.

Touching.

Violet.

Gooey. Gluey.

My favourite colour will always be violet.