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He was my blind spot. The one I adored. When I lied next to him,
I could hear him staring at the wall. I was his muse. He sang to me
every day after dinner. I made him creamy custard for
He was my blind spot. The one I adored. When I lied next to him, I could hear him staring at the wall. I was his muse. He sang to me every day after dinner. I made him creamy custard for desserts. He was a photographer before, maybe thats why he prefers painting in the golden hour. He needs my help to pick between red and green. I never asked why. Often in his paintings there are tints of red in places of green. But so what, we all get confused! He doesnt drive, because he says- green seems white and red and yellow look the same. He cannot tell when the traffic light changes from red to green. I dont ask him why. We discuss every star in the sky. He loves the rainbow and so do I. But he prefers the glinting lights over the gleaming ones. He prefers the incandescent against the lustrous lights. He describes colours in the most beautiful ways, never could one tell he is colour blind.