Gypsy Colours

You come in gypsy colours splattered all over
The ceiling of the room I lie in - a room
Barely 5 square memories, with zebra stripes for walls and
Liquid dreams for windows, delimited
Only by the silence that strangles a solitary
Flickering, light bulb. My fingers trace a forest
On the pillow, abounding in the thick
Canopy of our bedtime stories, buzzing
With with the hypothetical, brimming in
The moonlight silver.

You come in the smoke of a cigarette
Lit somewhere under a traffic light. Water droplets
From overhead wires and sooty cobwebs
Hang on for dear life, hoping to be immortalised
By the winter chill. Alas, its August in London
And global warming is real. I levitate
With the carbon monoxide, and nest in
The sooty cobwebs, looking for your reflection,
Clinging for dear life as the August heat
Makes me dizzy. I find your face, inverted, blurred,
A bokeh, almost, succumbing to the gravitational pull
Of the tar in the cigarette under the traffic light,
Crashing on the road, and splattering in gypsy colours.

You come in starry nights, as midnight blue
On a beach. The waves gurgle in excitement,
Drowning the rustling of leaves in the nearby thicket.
The bonfire crackles and pops, as I turn on my side
Towards the sandcastle that we built, with separate rooms
For our good and bad selves, painted in gypsy colors.

It is August in London, and there is no one
Knocking on my door. There is no sandcastle,
Just a room, smaller than 5 square memories
With flickering neon bulbs, a dream catcher and
A pillow smelling of loneliness.
I guess I am playing
With shadows in the darkness.