The Brilliant Hues

The brilliant hues that once surrounded us have all faded to shades of grey.
But you. You hold all the colors in your fists and you decorate me, bleeding colors into my soul--your canvas. You paint me with life, you paint me with laughter, and you extract from my mind every inhibition. Everything I planned to say dissipated the moment you took me into your arms and I breathed you in.
When I'm alone, I weigh out my situations, I give them rational numbers, and I plug them into equations. With you, however, there is nothing logical, nothing rational.
All is impulsive. I leap to you, I scream for you, and I kiss your lips. I am but a child, in love with her best friend. This love of ours is purer than summer rain yet broken in as the creased pages of dusty novels on the shelves in my great aunt's library. This love of ours is envied by the cherubim and seraphim in the colossal heavens above us.
This love of ours, I fear, began prematurely. Too soon, we met. Too soon, too hard, too fast, we fell. Too forcefully, we opened this bloom, just to see what might lie inside. Too soon, it died.
The shades of grey that once surrounded us have become the brilliant hues of the spectrum.
But you. You dropped all the colors, and you walked away from the canvas, leaving behind you a mess of colors that only a child could have made.