THE COLOUR OF LOVE
Isn’t it weird they call love red
the colour of fire and bleeding things
as if love burns more than it warms
as if it must always leave a mark.
Maybe love is blue instead
like oceans that hold and never tell
quiet but endless, deep but calm
where hearts can breathe without fear.
Or maybe love is green
growing wild, soft, uncertain
the way forgiveness sprouts again
after every storm has passed.
Sometimes I think love has no colour at all
just the shade of who we become
a blend of every joy and bruise
painted by the ones we choose.
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