Love;that drug gets you high on some days and low, soul wrenching depressed on other days. Some days you sing loudest to Passenger's songs as you go about your day's job, as the write the fucking best stuff you've ever written, as you feel yourself. And on other days, Sam Smith and Taylor Swift cut onions in your room, and you just lie down there beaten, defeated, broken. A used wipe. This drugs hits all the nine shades on different days.
Red, the Color of your favourite sweatshirt that she wears. Blue, the Color of the notebook where you wrote all the stories about you, about her, about life. She had just sent it back to you, you forgot it in her room. And seven other shades; one for the time you first the grey sit between you two and she started to drift. One for the time you got news of your grandma and you called her all night, but her iPhone was battery flat. One for the time you both got high at a party, bailey under your breathe. One for the times your dreams gets you kicking and fussing, those dreams of you scared of stairs or choking. And one for the time you rolled down from her, fell by her side and cried. She was your first. But she will never know that.
