Katelyn Rubenzer: Colors

Fall '13 TOC


I called you yesterday on the phone. I heard your voice but I was drawn to your smile. I felt it in my lips when you said that you loved me. I wished I could wrap myself up with your tongue, allow you to swallow me, wash my face with your breath. Instead, I felt the hard plastic of the receiver against my cheek, and my knuckles were white around the cord.

I remember how you painted the white statue blue with an orange flower on its head. I hated that statue. I hated the colors. I wanted to keep it white but you painted it dark blue. Shortly after, you moved out. I still have the statue but I haven't painted it again. It reminds me of you.

I always tell myself that I like the color orange because I want to be unique. I think of orange sunsets, orange curtains, and orange peels. I don't really think I am an orange person because I hate orange juice with pulp. The sliminess and slipperiness of the substance reminds me of worms and body decomposition. Maybe I am only drawn to orange coloring when a part of me is dying. The "you" part. I wonder what color will be the color of my rebirth, the part that fills in the "you" part.

I fell asleep last night with the dark green body pillow, which I tucked between my knees. I pretended the pillow was you, and I wound my fingers in the fibers like I did with your hair. I felt the locks wind themselves between my limbs, encircling the ring I now wear on my right ring finger. I hugged the pillow tighter, imaging what it would be like to merge with the pillow and with you. I couldn't fall asleep last night. I had a nightmare you weren't there, and I couldn't remember what you felt or smelled like anymore. I realized I hadn't fallen asleep yet. The color of fear is dark green.

My coffee cup splashed brown residue down its side, streaking the red handle with tan spots. I hate the mornings I have to drink coffee. I hate hearing trucks talk in the distance. I hate hearing the beeps of alarms. I hate mornings when I am working and the world is sleeping. I hate these mornings because work is steel grey, and my house is yellow. My house has giant windows with white curtains. This place is lonely and dark and cold. This house believes it can talk to itself and this house believes that what it thinks is true. This house scares me when I spend time it in alone.

I remember you liked the card I sent you. I saw the picture you sent me back. You are smiling, I missed seeing that smile I still have that picture framed. Such a great smile. I miss that smile. It's the color of Spring green.

I woke up this morning and it was black. My shadow casted a menacing face on the sidewalk as I unlocked the car door and crawled inside. I listened as the ignition rumbled over, the gears grinded into place. I turned down the radio and listened to the silence that was overcoming the car. As I pulled away, I strained to hear your snores. Why does the world have to be black in the morning?




Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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