The colour my hands turned when I had been clutching the hair-band I stole from you to my face tightly, to feel closer to you somehow, to will that you were not so far but next to me. I wished you were breathing in my ear, telling me the things I still fantasize that someone will tell me, telling me the things you would do to me when we were alone in the darkness. It is what my heart turned when you went quiet momentarily, although it always seemed much longer, when you were carried along by life, leaving me in your wake, clutching at the fumes of your going. When you came back, it was what the skies turned, away from the sweet melancholy that I had become accustomed to, spiralling me out of the dimness and dampness where I had found a contented comfort, pulling me out of myself where I was skulking in my thoughts. And, before I could stop the cutting words, it is what I left you, what your tears then painted me, dyed me in to my marrow, submerging me in the deep knowing that you were gone forever, that you are not coming back. It is what I left you, bruising you further and bloodying you even more, colouring your face and soul-canvas with stroke after stroke of navy pen.
Inspired by this.