Maa always says that hope isn't great, it is a colourful version of fog. But I never gave her my trust. //Caption I have a daffodil plant in my garden. Maa always says that hope isn't great, it is a colourful version of fog. But I never gave her my trust. I used to sit beside the sapling and my eyes met the blushing sky in a clandestine tryst. We chattered about you. How I'd hold your velvety hands amidst a daffodil field and would paint you with a palette of love because ' love ' was my favourite colour. How we'd lay under the sky and it'd change to a deep shade of turquoise, my mother's favourite gem. I wanted our love to be as sacred as my mother's. When we met, you took the painting brush from my hand and spattered all the colours over my favourite daffodil. It changed to a bright yellow from faint blue. You cut open my heart and squirted a purple rain into the veins. Now my body holds the essence of your time here. I am drenched in your emotions and desires.The silent glances are distant convos. That urged me to divulge into your hands, peer into your soul through your eyes brown as hazel beautiful as the rainbow sky. For at that moment your aura glowed. For at that moment your goodness oozed. A gorgeousness unleashed, a heart open to mending, piece by piece. Allowing peace by peace to glue the shattered splinters together. Knowing with a shoulder to lean on. You will once again heal and trod on with love.
