The song sings in my chest again and I want to know how. I told it to stop singing and showed it why.
I showed the song why. I gave the evidence black and white. It looked with pure eyes and still looks with pure eyes asking the question, “Where’s the evidence in color?”.
I scrounge up more cold photos, documents, and material. I lay them down at the songs feet and it looks. It always looks.
But it’s still not satisfied. It’s hurt and the song comes a little softer than before but it still sounds awfully beautifully. In fact, it pierces every part of my body and I am left on the ground. It’s not a choice.
The song sings and I try to shove more black and white.
The song sings and I try to say no.
But the song sings. It goes on and on. It plummets down my spine and into my toes and I can barely help but want to sing along. It rises and touches my forehead and the eyes. My eyes.
The color. Where is the evidence with color? The song sings it to me with a pure voice but oh, so naive.
The color. It always wants the color. This is what makes it sing. Truth be told the color was never lacking. Dark and vibrant reds streaked that time and that space. For two some years the greens were fresher than ever before. The yellows danced, and the blue made the ocean fill with envy.
The color was rich and full. The color was dancing and it sang.
But the lines were unclear. That bothered me more than the song. The song just sang louder. But the lines, and borders ran amuck. That bothered me more than the song.
I dare not say what I wish for I do not know how to divorce myself from the song.
Oh, the song. It sings and flows and hurts. It dances and goes on and I feel color.