I am a pot calling you/the kettle black

It was not very long for us; In an orchard full of ash-turned roses, All things bright and beautiful – we had loved them to dust And you whispered to me that we would be ablaze, Be as dark as the pubescent sun, as bright as charcoal tar...

Well, the truth is that, it was not a very long time ago; I was chasing rainbows at dusk and blacking out at dawn, And I fell in love with a blue-eyed girl just like that, out of the blue... Under the green string lights of bewitching enchantment she gave me the green light, Gave me the rose-coloured glasses and painted my town bright!

Had sleep never existed, I would not have been damned, For the gravity of my love for her could never bar my eyelids shut; “Am I seeing pink elephants?” – I would ask her, And although the menace of monochromatic Black Hole would dilute this image of hers, I wished I had been hallucinating when I was hers, But then my life would have been an illusion all along, too, And so would she, a dusted silhouette that had tarred my arms, Turned my heart as black as skillet, sold my soul on the black market! Oh, dear, my Time Keeper, my Time Destroyer, my Magical Muse! I am a scarlet woman for phantom touches of your hues and brushes of your love, Yet, my beloved, the shades and contour of your ghost are just not enough...

You were a daydream away, you were a blink-of-an-eye away, You were my addiction, my everything, the object of my veneration; I had put you down in black and white and lent colour to your tale in my myths and legends, Just to tickle myself pink to the point of nurturing a colourless flag, Just to become as white as a sheet whilst offering you a silver platter, Just to be blindfolded by a shadowy figure with a blank face, Another daydream in my sobering moment and mourning phase...

You know, I am still wandering this Earth feeling the blue, Carrying my heavily egged heart whisked with black and blue; But I made you sail under false colours at the tempestuous sea of delusions, too, Unveiling my true colours in the process as our pain had dyed the wounds of our wool, I will always remember those red-letter days kept in the dark from everyone And your silhouette.

— Mercureàlamer “I enjoy writing unsentletters to my past lover, because writing helps me remember, challenge, and contest myself, my portrayal of her, my representation ofothers. it is a kin to buildings and castles onth eshore, justtoseethembeingwashedawaybythewaves, soyouwillhavetobuildnewonesagain,buttheyarenolongerthesameasthepreviousones. Theactsofbuildingandrebuilding, justlikewritingandrewriting, arequitesimilartotheprocessesofrememberingandforgetting.eachtime, nothingiseverthesame. Perhaps, nostalgiaandamnesiaarenotthatbad;theyarejustpartoftheprocessofreinventingourselves. And, perhaps, Iwritetobeloved, andrewritetobelovedagain.”