I am in love with the color of a dark wine.
The passionate hue—it’s elegant and reformed with an edge of cruelty and cunning malevolence that swims in circles, like eagles around a helpless prey. The shade is calculated, but you wouldn’t ever know, for it masks itself with the pearly off-white and mellow black. Tied in posed suits and sweeping gowns, it sighs patiently in the faint glow of a ballroom’s elaborately lit decor whose glass shards glisten with dazzling winks, almost as charming as those of the opulent beads clamored to not-slender-enough fingers of not-perfect-enough persons dancing to a perfect night, toasting to a perfect night, both endlessly eluding them, nonetheless.
It is the sly crescent of the blood moon, shy to dance in the pure starlight. Rather, it taps alone in short shuffles masked by the night’s curtain veiling it from its bold love, merely radiating with relentless passion in quiet passing.
It is the sly crescent of the blood moon, shy to dance in the pure starlight.
But, in the shadows of this elegant color lurks a savagery more reckless than the other woman is heartbroken. In the shadows, cruel spirits barter victim for victim, intoxicating each of them into drunkards with yet less regard for the precarious balance of pearly off-white and mellow black that topple off into the latter all too often.
I’ve drowned in a devouring rivalry with the color of a violent sorrow.
The tired hue—it’s exhausted of its former passions, weary of the heartache, drained into a muted corpse of all she once hoped for that she has since shamefully relinquished without the fury that once consumed her. The shade is longing, trapped. Tied to discarded canvases, at last given love out of desperation for a fraction of a new reality yet tangled in a profusion of reminders of the old.
It is the quiet light of the lone star, unsure if she has reason to not slip away and submerge in the dark, releasing her every passion of the dark wine to be forgotten by their own producer.
I am whisked this way and that in the changing wind. That of the dark wine and that of the violent sorrow.
I will forever paint boldly these words across the sky. Drag my brushes through every vibrant color and tickle every surface with their unforgiving hues. Yet, never—not once, not for any reason nor influence—would I dare whisper the names of the true colors.
