You know, there are times when the colors just whisper. They hum tunes of what once was, dipping in and out just like moths flirting with the streetlight's glow. And in that fleeting moment, they're immortal... ephemeral but eternal.
I remember a time when the sky wore a jacket of faded vermilion as the sun bade its goodbye. We sat, two specks in that vast universe, lost in thoughts that nowadays feel like old songs. They're still there, just like that cerulean dusk, hanging just out of reach.
Don't you think colors have histories too? Stories that weave themselves around moments, making them heavier yet lighter at the same time. I find it melancholic, in a sweet way, almost like the way overgrown grass remembers rain.