Most memories of you by now are painted
in shades of sunrises and oranges.
The dark has faded into sepia
and if I wait some more, you’ll be all white.
Most facts of what went on, are futile dots,
unnoticed on the canvas near your face.
I’ve known you in all colours of this life
but I would tear the painting if it showed.
Most dreams of you are better than the truth.
Each time I find you back there under layers
of paint, and if I close my eyes, why would
I think of you but in sweetest colours.