Yellow

By Rose Lingo

When I found out, I was in shock—how did I not see it? His sunken eyes, his sallow skin, the track marks on his arms...the word oft omitted—or if uttered, whispered:  heroin. But then, as any truth we choose not to see, the bubble burst and gushed a flood of repressed memories. I remembered when he was high, because his energy turned yellow. RIP, D. I hope you like this. 

What are we supposed to do

when a past love dies?

Left with the ghosts

of memories, 

no chance to ever maybe

someday

recount them together. 

The smallest things—

laughs 

tears

glances—

the way his teeth looked when he’d laugh so hard he couldn’t breath. 

The way his arms felt as they wrapped around you;

strong and young, 

you’d feel small. 

How could someone be so good looking and be such a dork?

Infatuated by just the look of him, 

bursting with butterflies just thinking

about him 

wanting you;

that he could do no wrong because of the way he made you feel—

whole,

worthy.

And then, as abruptly as it began, 

it ends.

By death, 

by disease, 

by choice;

Like lightning strikes, 

shock and disbelief, 

the veil pulled back, 

something everclear turns 

yellow, sallow.

Dripping from the bones 

of a love you thought you knew.

Mischievous turns sinister, 

teeth turn to fangs, 

arms etched with tally marks

of reasons you weren’t enough. 

That this was a lie, 

that this love was never yours. 

Paths split—

yours a desert

turned forest fire, 

turned enchanted garden…

And his

ends. 

And all you’re left with

are the ghosts.