Delusion eyes and an empty heart
Would gladly welcome
Sunshine wrapped in cellophane.

It takes practice, maybe, to decode
What dilated pupils speak
But you never looked at me
Straight…
What were you hiding?
What couldn’t I see?
I’ve always been myopic, since age six;
I could never tell the difference
Between a lamppost and a tree
At a distance; they were just blobs of
Colours, to me.
(Or the lack of colours, maybe)

So I made my own colours
Blending strands of red, blue and green.
That’s when you said I saw things differently.
I knew it must be true
For I saw phantom colours in empty spaces.
It’s terrifying how myopia tricks your brain;
Blindness is honest to not expose half-truths,
The veiled counterfeits that have you believe
Otherwise.

The room was a miasma
Of unfinished tales
Hiding away in nooks and crannies,
In floorboards and folded sheets.
And you, as the protagonist,
Was the lone reality.
My fingertips were more accepting
To Braille
For although I mistook the colours
In your bookcase
I could trace
The smoothness of your lips,
I could touch
The calm of your face.
1 August 2016

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