I took a hand in mine and I looked out the window at the sun rising. It was pink and blue and purple and it painted the scene like it was something out of a movie.
The wind was warm and I could feel your hand on mine and I thought, this is what life is lived for. It was the middle of the summer, and we were drowning in dreams and fake promises and things we should have shared but didn’t. We were latched boxes hoping that we would fit into one another once the locks were cracked.
I didn’t want to look inside, too enamoured with the way it felt to have someone like you love someone like me, but I should have.
The thing they don’t tell you about memory is that it is unreliable in the worst way. There probably wasn’t a Magenta sky, but it felt like one when you were holding my hand. The earth probably didn’t move when you put your hands in my hair but that’s what it felt like, like the universe and space and time all of a sudden made perfect, alarming, obtrusive sense, like I could see where I fit in with the world around me.
It probably wasn’t like that, it was probably just a Wednesday but it didn’t feel like a Wednesday it felt like a hundred years had gone by and trampled the earth of my soul.
So I took my heart out and put it on the table, and you let me and said maybe. I left it there and let it spoil in the sun waiting for you to say that you wanted it. You said have a little faith, have a little less pride, have a little more patience. Have a little more gumption a little less longing, a little less magic. But I shouldn’t have to turn grey so that you can see colours, and one day there will be someone who longs for a Magenta sky.