Red:
It has always been the color of his world on fire, but now it is also the color of her lips as she whispers in his ear, warm breath tickling his skin. It is the car she slides into, throwing him the keys, laughing wildly as he slides behind the wheel. It's the feeling of her hands on his skin, the burning ache of her nails dragging down his back. It's the smash of glass on the floor, the blood on his knuckles, his pulse racing. It is the thrill of danger, the thrill of her.
Yellow:
It is the barely-there ache of a week-old bruise, the one she landed on him at the gym. It is the glass of champagne she hands him, the bubbles fizzing in his mouth. It is the hum of fluorescent light bulbs above them and the scent of her perfume. It is a Sunday afternoon in bed, legs and sheets tangled together. It is the light he can't see, but it is also the warmth of her skin when she stands close, and if he had to pick between seeing and feeling, he'd always, always, always choose feeling, especially with her.
Blue:
It is the color of choosing water over champagne. It is the memory of the feeling of her silk dress as he dipped her on the dance floor, and waking up to an empty bed and cool sheets. It is the chilling realization that she wants vengeance, that he wants justice, and that those are not the same things. It is the breeze coming through the empty, open doorway, the place where she should have been but isn't. It is days, weeks, months, spent waiting for her to come back.
Purple:
It is a fresh bruise blooming along his knuckles, his cheek, his ribs. It is the breath knocked out of him, the feel of the pavement beneath his back. It is the feeling of losing himself, the feeling of reckless abandonment that he's been trying to recapture for ages. It is the spitting of blood onto the streets, the cracking of bones under his own hands. It is falling into a dumpster, broken, and with no desire to crawl back out again. It is waking up on a stranger's couch and wishing it was her, and not this other woman, who is patching him up again.
It is red, but lonelier.
Black:
It is the color of her hair, her eyes, the night. It is the darkness she clouds herself in, sitting on his couch. It is the car she sends to pick him up, the tuxedo she hands him. It is the safe she has him break into, and the Cheshire-like quality of her smile. It is the color of ruin, and she's ruining him, still. It is the way she sinks her claws into him, dragging him around behind her like they're still two halves of the same whole. She'll be the death of him. He tells her he's done with her, and she laughs because they both know he's lying.
White:
It is everything she hasn't touched, and she's touched everything.