Monochrome
I want to talk about the fact that I loved you
less than a year ago, and now those feelings are like dandelion seeds on the wind
wishes that turn into weeds, a song I wrote that itches the soul
sunburn on the back of my neck. I went to the doctor
and had them check that I wasn’t dying because
the colour was leaching out of me like Skittles in a science class
and I couldn’t breathe sometimes at night but I blamed the mould
in the walls and the cigarette smoke in the stairwell rather than let you
take my lungs as well. I was convinced – sold trapped fossilised – that
you were the only one for me. I wrote long mournful notes
in the air and on my phone, clawed the clouds from the sky and trapped them
under my pillow, woke up soaked in the rain I found in my dreams.
The world isn’t a single colour, though, and soon I found
I could see beyond your spellbound indigo to the teals and greys
the hot pink of strawberry soda. My God
if I could learn half of what I learned from love from something less rife with holes
I’d never love again. This morning I found a note I wrote to myself three years ago
that I was writing a love song and
everything was splendid.
I said to myself, or the me I was then, who didn’t know anything much of anything
I said, ‘Baby, in two years you will fall in love
and it’s gonna suck.’
Daisy Harris
Daisy Harris Poetry 