The sky hazed purple, the clouds the color of bruises.
I was in my most vulnerable shade;
Neither purple nor grey, but white,
that would be soiled by the slightest of exposure.
It was the white of pain, the neediest of shades.
It wasn’t attention my pain sought for.
Did I crave for a palm that cared for or a shoulder to pour on?
I was confused,
white turned beige.
It was strange how physical pain triggered an emotional havoc,
mood swings was an understatement.
Solitude wasn’t sweet anymore,
loneliness stopped with its lies and revealed herself bare.
Stripped naked.
The chills creeped in.
I needed another shade to thaw the chill that spined within.
A calmer shade to paint this white canvas,
a warmer shade to make me feel at home.
A white that garbed the moon;
A fellow soul, a Nightingale.
She longed for the moon to shine on her tune;
Longing for love, for validation.
Song after song, tear after tear;
Night after night, waxing and waning and waxing again;
She sang to herself, now for herself.
She found her shade, not the white that garbed the moon;
It was her shade,
The shade of the Nightingale. 🤍❄️🌊
~Arundhati Garnaik
