Why Did The Colours Run

Why Did The Colours Run

I washed the day with careful hands,

believing what was bright would stay,

reds and blues held their own names,

standing proud in early light.

The water turned a quiet grey,

a slow confession in the sink,

yellow bled into the white,

as if hope forgot its place.

I asked myself where I went wrong,

was it the rush or blind trust,

did I mix what should stay apart,

or expect too much to last.

Once the colours knew their edges,

each one strong without defence,

now they lean into each other,

tired, blurred, and hard to name.

It feels the same with memory,

love left soaking far too long,

what was clear begins to fade,

until nothing stands alone.

I lift the cloth and hold it still,

ruined, yes, yet telling truth,

even loss leaves its own mark,

and stains prove something lived