Wisteria was the color of her. He knew wisteria was the color of her, because she was wisteria. Her name may have been Lily, but she was not the color of a regular old lily. She was a special color. Wisteria.
Wisteria was somewhere between periwinkle and gray. It was not as serendipitous as periwinkle, but it was certainly not as mundane as gray. Wisteria was her color. In his mind, her name was Wisteria. He did not call her Lily, but Wisteria.
It did not matter what he called her, though, because she would not hear.
He put the knife down on the table and stared at the wisteria-painted walls, trying his best to imagine that the color of the blood splattered everywhere was the color wisteria. Because, if she was wisteria, then her blood must be wisteria.
Not red.
Wisteria.
YOU ARE READING
Poems - because words can be beautiful
Poetrypoems - because words can be beautiful === The more serious and less traditional of a duo of ongoing poetry collections. It's other half is shallow and your simple rhyming book. This one is just a pile of thoughts and emotions on a page, not rhyming...
