Where there used to be Color, there is nothing but black and white.

On a good day it is:

The black of her hair, the black of her coffee, the black of her words on a page.

The white of her smile, the white of her sheets, the white of her fingers in mine.

On a not so good day there is only:

The black of her veins, the black of her eyes, the black of her cutting words.

The white of her pills, the white of her sneer, the white of her door in my face.

But Color is still vivid in my mind. It has not been forgotten, just... left behind in the whirlwind that is love and loathing and life. It was not always like this.

I can still remember:

The red of her smiling lips, the pink of her flushed cheeks, the gold of her sun warmed skin.

The blue of her chipped nails, the yellow of her favorite dress, the orange of her silhouette framed in sunset.

But the time of Color has long passed for me and her. The time of spontaneous picnics and dandelion wishes and whispered secrets. The time of shy bouquets and rumpled sheets and music-filled mornings.

Young love. What a colorful lie.

I miss it.

But in this black and white world, love is the lie that’s keeps us alive.