Her pastels
tended to color
my otherwise drab impressions
my life lacking well-defined
boundaries
the reds fading into
oranges,

Her pastels
a metaphor, being
the way she was, when speaking
the way she was, when thinking
how she did those things
why it should be me
I wondered,

Painting a picture
one existing outside
of my imagination,
the colors fervent
disavowing any knowledge
that of being cooler instance
changing the temperature
changing the way that I felt

Her pastels
warm and inviting,
a mere fingertip tracing
my image in her mind
casting colors about
as if they needed to define
the way
I felt about her

The narrowness
of my thoughts
my own colors
pale in relation,
lacking the vibrant edges
the deeper indigos
the blue in her eyes
seeming to drown me
seeming to drown any thoughts
of reaching the edge, the shores

Lying along her sandy stretches
the warmth of the reds, the yellows
her spectrum dazzled
trapping me in her pastel dreams

my pastel dreams

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