Yellow

Yellow is your favourite colour. You love coffee and sourdough bread with avocados for breakfast. You make silly jokes whenever you can. You prefer savoury foods over sweets.

You like things tidy. You take care of your favourite brown boots. Your bedroom is always clean. You love washing the dishes to keep your hands warm. You show off your skincare routine. You smell of unscented soap and warmth.

It is easy to make you laugh. You’re quite the charmer. You love people and big crowds. You make friends as naturally as a breath. You’re an observer. You slip into conversations with ease. Sometimes, you’re a mirror. You have powerful eyes. You know when people are watching. You shift personas when they do.

You say you like being an open book.

Sometimes, you laugh for the sake of it.

You have an obvious fake laugh and a rare sincere one. You get shy and it shows in your eyes. When you get excited, you stand up, limbs and hands animated. You have a distinct expression when you want attention. You get super loud when you want me to look at you.

You’re so loud, even when you’re not talking. You’re always moving. You carry your guitar everywhere as if there’ll be a reason to randomly combust into sound. Sometimes you randomly slip into song when you feel awkward.

You know you can’t sing, but you belt Flowers by Miley Cyrus when you wash the dishes. You hum when you walk.

You have a short span attention, and you wear it as a badge of honour. You don’t like staying in one place. It frightens you. You are beautiful when you are fleeting. You can only be revered in pieces.

You don’t like it when I see you.

You say your greatest pet peeve is when people chew loudly, but I know what irritates you more is when someone interrupts you. Your eyes dim. Or they harden.

You say you don’t believe in meditation, but you read self-help books like your life depends on it. You don’t like it when people tell you what to do, but you drop unsolicited advice like a trail of breadcrumbs. You don’t understand the appeal of marriage, but you parody commitment in miscellaneous rendezvous and short-lived friendships. You don’t know what you want but you pretend that you do. You preach that I should, too.

You don’t like me. I don’t like you.

You wonder who broke my heart.

You know that I like writing and poetry. You know what car I drive. You know that I don’t like big crowds. You can sense my discomfort from a room away.

You like it when I speak. You love when my eyes light up. You ask me questions you know I’ll like, and sometimes, when you’re being sneaky, you’ll find reason to show me off. You like watching when I eat. You like the way I move my body. You think I’m pretty funny.

Not funny enough.

You don’t understand me. You test me. I don’t tell you about my dreams, but I call you out when you joke about the wrong things. You don’t know what to make of my silence or my teasing. You don’t know why you feel so nervous. You confess: “I can’t tell when you’re joking.” You leave me in big crowds. You don’t like me.

Is it against your will when you gain courage to hold me in your arms? I’m not sure if it is pity or apology? It is telling that your touch feels like a puzzle piece falling into place. We click together before I am pushed apart. Doesn’t it speak for itself, the sudden, ferocious absence I feel when we let go? Isn’t it enough to change our minds?

You unravel her name carefully like a bandage around a partially healed wound, “We’re official now.”

You think I don’t like you because I don’t react.

How else do I say that I am hurt?

You leave her in less than a year. You announce to everyone that you’ve resorted to a new spirituality: “The cards read that I made an enemy.”

You glance longest at me. You think we are enemies.

I do not dare admit my silence is not venomous,

just like my distance was never a declaration of war.

You don’t like that

I choose self-respect.

You want to fight.

I write you into the margins of different papers, and into the colours of the evening sky.

I remember you in all the things I dislike.