The falliable colour of memory

In September, I surrounded myself in girls in lurid polyester tops and chunky metal rings. Street smart loud mouth go-getters to help me along. To show me how to harden from my quietly wilting state of your construction. One afternoon, we entered a dress boutique. On display were diaphanous meshes, sheer satins and tumbling silks in citrus, turquoise, emerald, raisin. I touched every texture, fingertips gently trailing the surface; in between shawl folds, down the length of hung gowns. For a moment you were not the most beautiful thing in my world.

In an effort to sustain such accidental distraction, from then on I made a note to find beauty around me, beauty that did not derive from you. Such as in the home wares store I visited during my recess break:
daisy motif and bridal ivy house signs & magnets inscribed with Hope is born again in the miracle of Spring

clay masks with almond cuts for eyes, bird feather crowns and hand stitched indigo sequins

images of lovers smiling and standing in front of Parisian landmarks in chrome photo frames.
I walked home that night and came home to your call. I told you I hated you, but the relief in my voice from still being able to hear yours betrayed my words.