The days I am away from you

I count each, in every turn,

this bitter shade of hues:

deadly crimson, ruby red

murky violet, carmine shred.

Your name wraps, jaundiced

around my head. 

Purple sprouting

or white as a bean?

There’s nothing can be lost,

where nothing has been.

And yet, I am here, always

Waiting for what, my love, not?

Grasping at the pigments 

Waiting for your plot.

—-

“In describing any object, to specify its colours is always useful; but where colour forms a character, it becomes absolutely necessary.” P Syme, Werner’s Nomenclature of Colours