Myopia of Colour

It is the sunlight of morning rays in my myopic eyes – swathes of sleeping colour tinted by morning rain. It is the swaying saffron branches of the yew tree that overlooks the road. It is those pale lips of pink that quiver under every breath; the sinews of muscle and vein in the yellow light. Other times it is touch of freshly-pressed cotton taut over skin. A sensual twitch of an eyebrow, thin and bare. Your smell that excites. Or the drizzling mist of a rain that falls like a cloud on my face and the mimosa weeds of mauve and pink that crowd unchecked at my feet. Or the soft music that flows between the phosphorescent chroma of the passing world through the MRT windows.

The world slows to a caesura of intensity; I stop and breath deeply the hot blushes of colour and the short-lived bursts of life around me. For too long have I been blinded to this facet of existence that in retrospect it is as if all my life has been a mere blur of cheerless grey.

There is a greatness of beauty in this world; I want to breathe it all in.



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