Colours of Yellowed Letters

And as it happens with distant memories

you begin to question their existence

always ending up with “maybe,

I just made it up”

But those yellowed letters are a story

I am not creative enough to write.

Where did those words come from,

I think now

Was it the grey December and

shivers it sent through my body, that

spark of romanticism that bursts

out of nothingness

or the whiteness of the paper I laid

myself bare on, screaming out rainbow

stories I can no longer make up

the end of,

or perhaps it was just that blues-

stricken face of yours I conjured up

to believe that emptiness has a colour

as mine,

to answer your “So, tell me about

your dreams” for purposes other

than storytelling itself, until the cigarette

stubbed

It is on nights as black as these
sweat-soaked body meek, that
feverish yellow appears shiny 

which makes me wonder, maybe

I just made it up.