The first time I saw her, she was in red.
There was even a tint of red adorning her cheeks, the tips of her fingers, her nose and lips.
She was brimming with strong emotions: rage, excitement and most importantly, love.

The next time I saw her, she always wore blue.
She looked like a solemn, long lost melody.
Lost the sparkle in her eyes, she looked distant.
There was a breeze of melancholy following her footsteps.

The few times I saw her in green, she was her happiest self.
She chuckled and played, breathlessly she laughed.
Always humming a tune, she walked as if she was walking on clouds.
But, that's the color I have seen on her the least.

But mostly...mostly she wears black.
Like a palette with every color mixed in,
she is her truest self when she is in black.
All the parts of her beautiful self, evidently visible:
joy, bitterness, fear, impatience, concern, quirkiness and so it goes on.

Perhaps, it's because black is what she sees always.
The color she sees each time each part of her decides to show up.
The only color her eyes can see, the only color she knows.

She doesn't dress to her mood.
She doesn't get to choose the colors.
The colors have a way of choosing her.
.
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@fernweh

© Chintha