the colours of this conversation are draining dear.

as the bright red fades from your eyes,

the pigments have left,

and you sway as if the wind may knock you down,

eyes now locked on the overgrown grass,

you promised them you'd never known my life.

you'd never know the taste of us.

as we reach the derelict buildings,

soon I'll know the red again.

although it's a different shade this time.