rose coloured glasses he lovingly placed upon her face

it is all whiffs and scents and blurs of colour and sadness
she has painted herself like a saint against the stained glass of his iris, but he finds that he can no longer believe

she's not listening

she hated the way you never knew anything about arbus
or the way a glance can change the room
that the idea of making a home filled you with regret and not with joy
that you didn't see the value of a quiet pot of flowers breathing on the sill
or the way coconut milk floods a space with home
she hated the way you spoke only with periods
and the way the next page seemed like a logical suite
how you didn't see that softness
or the brush of a finger
made the whole day disappear