Colours of our Love
by FairyTale
Light. It was dawning upon me in an array of hidden colours. Artist colours, the privileged ones who see the true colours of beauty, and it reminds me of him.
Walking slowly, crunching the frozen leaves beneath my feet, I lament the death of our friendship, the death of our romance but most of all, the death of our art, the love between the painter and the subject.
Crisp air tingles my ears, my eyes water from it's sharpness, my hands unmoving, frozen to my shawl. Memories flood through my mind, multiple 'what if's and 'if only's echo my thoughts. But I continue walking.
Looking downwards, I can see the unbidden teardrops fall to the ground. I see their colours. The light reflecting them as they fall. I see. Yellow, green, blue, violet, the colours of my sadness. And the colour of pearl, reflecting the past and mingling with the present. But I continue walking.
Glancing upwards, I feel the chill whip my eyes, the tears frozen. I can imagine him in front of me, saving me from the winter as he had helped me so many times before. Unclenching my fists, the wind carries my shawl away from me. The wind...I see it's colours too and I feel it's sadness. I want to share my sadness with you, wind, let me show you my colours. Taking off my bonnet slowly, my hands fumbling with it's ties, it too is picked up by the wind. Next, my overcoat and after that, my shoes. Like a paintbrush, my clothes add colour to the canvas of the world. My colours. If only he were here to paint my world. If only he were here...
I remember him breathing on my neck, his breath sensuous and warm. The wind is cold but I can imagine him behind me, whispering to me, telling me he's here. His hands on my shoulders, his gifted hands of beauty and art. The hands that create masterpieces. The hands that love. His body warming mine, just by a touch, just by a whisper.
And then it is gone...Someone else's hands are on my shoulders. They're rough and unwelcome but they touch me anyways. The stranger's voice seems distant, not the close whispers that caught my breath. The stranger's putting something on me, a blanket I think and telling me to go somewhere warm. Warmth...
I remember his warmth. The warmth of a word, the warmth of a stroke, the warmth of protection, the warmth of a love.
Walking into the town, I spot him. I can see the figure that I've spent so much of my time remembering, the silhouette embedded in my heart. Running towards him, I see his colours - the cold grey, the saddened blue and the colour of pearl. The colour of our memories.
He's so close to me, I'm reaching for him, needing to grasp him. Needing him.
And then he is gone, just like the memories. The pain of loss echoes through my empty heart, the feeling felt a hundred times before, each one softening the blow of the last.
Dejected, I stand alone.
My colours, yellow, green, blue, violet and the colour of pearl, the colour of our love.
Fumbling with my skirt, I find the pocket with our secret inside. I grasp them and hold them out in front of me. The namesake of our love. The perfect colour of our romance.
If only... I let the pearl earrings fall, light casts shadows on them as they drop, the colours mesmerizing. I can feel them, like an artist feels them. I can see all the colours, cascading along the delicate objects. All the colours of our love. I can see, looking up I face the wind and my memories of Jan Vermeer lay frozen on the ground.
And I walk home.