Where the Colour Lives

This one came in pieces. A boy. A tin of crayons. A fridge humming in the dark. Oh, and yes, a superfluous vowel or two.

I didn’t set out to write it. It found its shape slowly—quiet gestures, held silences, small things that carry weight.

Lately I’ve been leaning into that space between poetry and prose. Letting rhythm do the heavy lifting. Letting structure loosen.

That gave me permission to leave some things unsaid.

This is a quiet story.
But it stayed with me. Maybe it will with you, too.

Where the Colour Lives

Where the Colour Lives

He draws in the quiet.
His crayons live in a biscuit tin under the bed,
alongside his other treasures.

They used to come in a box that promised
72 colours—
but he’s lucky if there are twenty now.
None of them whole.

Reds worn to nubs.
Blues still long.
Yellows and oranges
conspicuously absent.

Tonight,
it’s a sun with a face.

The smile comes out crooked,
but he doesn’t start over.

He draws the eyes wide—
how hers used to look
when she laughed.

He’s not sure
she laughs like that anymore.

But this is the version
he wants to remember.

The one
he still hopes
might come back.

He tiptoes to the kitchen.
The hallway light is off.
The fridge hums.

He listens.

Everything feels paused.

He adds the drawing to the door,
tucking it beneath a magnet
shaped like a cow.

There are others.
He doesn’t count.

Just presses it flat.

The drawing stays where he puts it.
That feels like enough.

There are glow-in-the-dark stars
on his ceiling.

Some have fallen.
He doesn’t mind.

He remembers
where they were.

Lately,
she forgets things.

Toothbrushes in odd places.
Towels still damp at night.
Once,
a spoon in the bathroom sink.

Sometimes she smiles
too wide.
Sometimes
not at all.

He knows not to ask.

That night,
the bathroom light stays on.

He hears her crying.

Quietly—
like she’s wanting,
and not wanting,
to be heard.

He sits on the edge of the bed,
feet not touching the floor.

A faint scent of shampoo
lingers in the hallway.

When all is silent again,
he lies back
and watches the stars.

One is missing
above the window.

He closes his eyes
and puts it back
with his mind.

In the morning,
the kitchen feels cooler.

One of her slippers
is by the door.
The other
is gone.

The fridge is nearly bare.

No magnets.
No drawings.

Just one sheet of paper
in the centre—
creased,
like it had been
in a pocket.

It’s the sun
with the face.

Smoothed.
Flattened.
Held in place
with Blu-Tack.

She’s by the window.
Looking,
but not really seeing.

A cup of tea
sits by the sink—
half full,
gone cold.

Neither of them
says anything.

But there’s a sandwich
in a Ziploc bag.
Crusts cut off.

A square of foil
folded around
a chocolate biscuit.

Her hand lingers slightly
as she passes them to him—
just enough
to feel.

He takes them
without speaking.

At school,
he unwraps the foil slowly.

It smells faintly
of butter
and hand soap.

He eats the sandwich.
Wraps the biscuit
back in foil.

Saves it—
like a secret.

That night,
he draws
a moon
with its eyes closed.

He leaves it
on the table.