• veloc1ty_ 18w

    A few hours left of daylight, you face me with the sun running wild behind you, frozen, large, and a striking shade of red and orange. A few feet apart from me, you are reduced to a soft silhouette that’s in motion, leaping in my direction. Your thick dark brown hair is waving in the back like a towering flame; a moving impression of what I believe to be the greatest creation I have yet to rejoice. When you’re inches away from my longing touch, I raise my hands to cup your face. It only took an eternity of wait to know what it feels like to touch the burning shell of a sun.

    You dip both of your hands into the yellow tub that’s bathing in the hopelessly golden rays of the sun and pull out a handful of paint. You inch towards me and begin rubbing it all over my face, starting from my oyster cheeks to the sharp ends of my jaw, justifying that the color yellow goes well with my smile. And I strike a smile to prove your point.

    “The color of love isn’t red or pink but the yellow dripping down your sunburnt face.”, you say. I nod and inquire about the blank canvases that are watching us both from afar. The soon-to-be wall pieces that will be hanged above our green bedroom wall. I ask what’s on your mind. A radiant landscape or a dark portrait. A scenery of that town we ran away to or my evening face.