question mark?

17.06.19 (edited an older piece)

heartbreak is a familiar hand slapping me across the face
I have been hit so many times, I do not feel each sting
but an ever-present pain.

I prefer this sociable sea to the white of
blank canvases they sell off as art. Unfiltered light
traversing my eyes is much worse than any kind of dark,

The only way to lend colour to grayscale wonder
is to survey through rose-coloured glasses-

so what if sometimes they simmer a broken blue or the striking green
of wanting somebody to want to talk to you?

I do not care if red makes my blue a burgundy,
dried blood is more vivid than no colour at all.

I have bled because of some specific incisions so deep,
that now I only see
the lids of my eyes (as life’s fluids drain by)
flutter, the untrained wings of newborn butterflies.

This is a game of lost and found where I know what it’s like to be lost
and to keep wanting to be found,

we play hide and seek,
only you stay hidden behind sheets that I seek
to unwind, and at the end there is never any prize,
only price for letting myself think
“just friends” could be your lie,
just like mine:

acting like I’m really fine when all that tumbles
in my mind is the lingering trace of hope,

maybe “coffee” means a date and maybe “my place” means more?