In the Language of Color

No one saw it.

Not really.

They were watching

everything else.

But between fabric and breath,

between tiled floor and rising ache,

a hand reached out

and gave

what words could not.

Not a letter.

Not a kiss.

Just color,

quiet and gold,

alive,

still becoming.

They were watched,

so they spoke in color.

They were bound,

so they answered in absence.

They were apart,

so they touched through

the shared weight of silence.

A bud passed into open palm to say:

This is hard.

But I am with you.

Not in the way they’d allow.

Not in the way the story demands.

But I am here,

in this bloom too small to name,

too real to dismiss.

When you hold it,

you hold me.

And I am not letting go.