Flip

I can't leave the day alone without giving him a word. Orange or rouge or basking in silver. But lately our conversation's grown foreign, two tongues rambling in language I don't understand. The ones I gave him with my tongue, the auburn and lime green, the blue horizon glinting from his eyes, are slipping into parched air. Droplets suddenly forgotten in what was once dampness. Rain. Liquid that broke them from invisible shells and flung them against skin in lavish colors, bled over dead land. Tickling my ear with his silent teeth, I don't know him. Can't feel his breath. He's only a mirage. A slipping away of something sweet I never tasted but always crave. I know the colors, but some days my favorite one is grey.