Jaeseop (ukiss) and Jiyeon (t-ara)

He’s at his favourite coffee shop the one across from where she works at. There’s viridian green tainted in the sky, the acrimony of cigarettes in the air. He presses the nicotine to his lips, inhales, exhales, and a swirl of cloud billows out. He pulls out his notepad, electric crimson velvet in all its fire and glory. In their comprises words etched from the heart, italics, dripping ink sugar of her aurulent gold shaded hair to the edginess of her sharp tongue. She comes into his life like waves but then pulls out again, like she always does.

                                                   He wonders if she was the right choice.

She’s at her workplace. Her bones are aching, melting to paint. Violent (violet) purple bruises blooming internally. Ribcage two corsets too tight, eyes painfully dead. She’s all concave, sharp edges and hard candy, while she knows he is candied sugar sweet all over. Office hours are over. She walks out, tempestuous serenade, heads turning wherever she goes. Robin blue feathers in her hair, carmine painted eyes. She’s outside the coffee shop, his favourite place (used to be our favourite place) thoughts are bittersweet. Coffee shop inhabits peach bodies all combustion of sheer obscure colours.

                               She doesn’t love him anymore, she wonders if she ever did.

She’s opposite him now. There’s no warmth, no love in those glimmering cardinal eyes, just deadpan, tar black, dripping, ink soul. The coffee she ordered (in an Indian clay mug) on the side is cold, ice cold. They both say nothing; he knows what she will say. He hears his heart already breaking into a million pieces, an explosive combustion of his romanticism already going down the drain. She is intangible. Her sarcoline, cerise flushed hands, reach for his. He pulls his hand away from the mahogany table quickly (almost knocking the table over) before her hand can grab his. Hurt already reflecting his now umber eyes. She sees it now, the blood, the crimson blood pouring from his heart, reminding her of the electric, crimson notebook of his.

                          His love was nothing but a sick fairy tale, romanticized lunacy.

He was warned of girls like her, ones that break men’s hearts ones that are never satisfied with what they already have. Seductive sharp laced, femme fatale. Everything he felt, all the colours he imagined love would be, all the pastels, now nothing but sepia and monochrome, murky and deadpan. He’s lost now amongst the ocean, the sea of faces. As they both go their separate ways, her under a cerulean parasol, him heart bruised violently (violet) electric crimson notebook held tightly against his chest. He wonders if he should throw it away.

                                                             In the end he decides not to.