02 November 2017; 

On an eerie winter morning, a child tiptoed his way to my lost self, he perched himself beside me on a lone park bench. He seemed to be five or six years old at most as he peered into the book before continuing, “What colour is the sky?” He asks with such innocence that it makes me question whether this was rhetoric.

I let out a small chuckle before answering him, “Well today, the sky is grey” 

“Grey? My mom says blue tastes like summer popsicles and sunshine meeting the ocean. I wonder what grey tastes like.” his certainty made me feel that for just one moment I could taste the sea on the tip of my tongue.

I close my eyes for a moment to see if I could taste grey, it seemed absurd but I could feel the scales shifting. 

“Grey, tastes like nostalgia. Like black and white pictures that capture bittersweet emotions and unopened love letters. It tastes like cigarettes on a rainy day with just enough sun to make you wish for a rainbow. Grey is stolen kisses and steamy sex followed by a hot shower. It is sweaty and messy and chaotic. Grey tastes like bitter coffees in libraries, trapped between the pages of philosophy and tragedy. Grey is a passionate lover, dragging itself on the fine line between everything and nothing. It’s missing full stops and mixed signals. 

Grey tastes like smooth whiskey mixed with ash and tears. The soft lullaby pulling you into gentle embraces and kind words. The empty void that consumes you when you feel your heart drop to your stomach and force yourself into false promises and hope. 

Grey tasted like silences. The kind we now shared.” 

Writing prompt: Grey

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