For Arunima
On amber blue mornings,

Sunlight reflects back from your

Painted nails with chipped tips,

And filters from the gaps between your teeth onto your tongue,

So I ask you,

How does sunshine taste?

And covering a bumpy smile against your flawless lips,

You answer,

It tastes yellow,

Not like a lime yellow, but a custard yellow

in a vanilla coated mouth.
I will remember you in custard.
I learned at school

that one part red mix one part green

makes the colour that I hated:


I learned at life

that love was a bloody red

and compromise was a glorious green,


I learned from you,

That loving was a mix of both

And so, loving was yellow,

the kind of yellow witnessed at dawn with a little red, a tinge of purple

like God’s own canvas against an appalling battleground

quenching the eyes’ thirst for spirit,

so that your ardor is your armour now,

And axioms a sword

To take on a bleak cosmos

And make it into a parasiadical one.
I will remember you in the mixing pallette, a canvas and loving the world.
Did I ever tell you, that your laugh reminds me of cinnamon rolls

garnished with yellow honey,

it is hard earned,

so that when I have it, i savour each granule of saccharine,

and its not just me,

Everytime you laugh, a yellow flower blooms in some garden,

And in your yellow heart, you know this secret,

so you make people laugh,

And that’s how there are valleys of 

red and blue and purple and pink flowers,

with the yellow one shining the brightest amongst all.
I will remember you in cinnamon rolls and flowers.
You are not a factory made shining white page,

With blotched ink marks,

And violent nib movements from angry writers etched on your soul,

Instead you are the yellow parchment paper,

with years and years of carved manuscripts,

In requiem for a reader to read articulated versions of your being,

for a singer to sing the lyrical symphonies,

Or chuck that,

If i know you decorously,

You will be the reader in the mornings

And the singer at nights,

Playing an ukulele and singing a song called ‘Yellow’,

better than Coldplay ever could.

You are not someone’s song. Not a symmetry.

Not a thought. And never someone’s victory.

You are the girl that contains the power,

To create and destroy each one of these chromatic dreams.

And you know so inside your heart.
I will remember you in parchment papers and ukuleles.
I often see you

as a yellow anchor

that balances a sinking ship,

but more often

I see you

as a pheonix that chose to be yellow

and flew through a town with crumbling statues

to resurrect hope burried under the remnants of a dying sun,

whose tears fall on ashes of a burned hearth in a ruined home,

to give birth to another pheonix,

that a little boy of the town can call his own.

You tell me that judgements are for black judges to pass,

And accepting validation is for white cowards.

You show 

the little girl with insecurities

And a chicken heart hiding her flakiness,

trying hard to cover her yellow with glitters,

You show her 

that there’s yellow behind every heart of gold.

And for that,

she will be grateful to you, forever.
She will remember you in an anchor, a pheonix and golden.

But mostly, she will remember you in yellow.


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