Divas' Intelligentsia

I wish that
my colours
could be distilled to just
two shades of pink.
Magenta and rose.
Magenta for the outline
and rose for the in-between.

I have no truck
with the dull hues
of your cheapskate rainbow:
dark coats and white gloves
and feathers of red.

Today I tore down
your photograph
and discarded it.

It was a picture of us
at the top of a
grey lighthouse. You pouted,
as you always did.

If I could have seen you pouting
that day, in the wind, up high
it would have made me sick.

All the little pixels
that made up your face
were dots of ink,
and that ink can never
be got back.