TRUE COLOURS
For Wojtek
A wave hits me, the end of autumn. One step away from winter. It is not a good time. It is the unknown. Like the fling between Spring and Summer. Or the last days before the new year begins. It is just something. And while summer made me forget how lost I am, the end of autumn picks me up and drags me to a place that I thought I had left behind. The one where the chapter was closed. But not with you. Maybe not ever, forever. You fed me with words, lyrical poison I ate, as if I was starving from love itself. I had no idea that your words opened my heart and took a piece. I just let myself go. In every possible way. Over a year feeding from something that never existed, until autumn came. Along with sad songs and symphony of poets that understood me. But how was I supposed to save myself when I was never good enough? - for you; for an answer; the truth; anything like love and honesty.
The doorstep of winter awaits me, just a fling away from the new year. Between Copenhagen and London my mind is lost. I want to run. Run like the sixteen year old teenager that once did from home. But unlike my teenage self I have no guarantee that it gets better. And that's when life just does it's own thing. And where is void, there are ashes, chemicals in form of a human being, stepping into your life. Just like that.
I have no idea why. It started with sad songs, the irony of my life, but he understands. And he picks me up, no matter what is going on. I feel bad. And weak. And conflicted. He is a stranger. But it doesn't feel like it. He is just there for me. He cares. And while my stolen piece of my heart leaves me bleeding, another part gets filled with colours. True colours.
With the loss of something once close to me, I find someone who helped me from drowning. And after the storm there are new things. Good things. Better moments. The best feelings. How odly to shape a bond from suffering of a broken heart. But he gives me the needle, if he knows or not, and I start stitching. It is ugly and each stitch makes me lose and free from the ones that used to be close. I can do it. And watching him makes it easier. What a weirdo. But the good kind. The one that cares, once you see behind.
It reminds me of the moon. Never just one shape. So many sides, phases and ideas. You can see it in his eyes. Some people stare and are still here. Others are miles away, outer space just like the moon. But a symbol isn't enough to shape his character. Neither are words. Nor colours itself. Or the rainbow just as bright. He is divergent. With the things he does, speaks, feels. And that makes him so imperfectly perfect. Like a red dress in a room of white suits. An orchid in a field of roses. And a duck swimming between swans.
And somewhere in between all this imperfect somewhat it is just good. And he is still there. Just like that. Living in his own true colours, giving me hope.
And there I am lucky to have him with me, in the new year.
14.01.2020 - LC HAMILTON
