When I was 12, you asked me my favourite colour-
Black, I said, Like my soul.
because you were yellow
and wise like the feather pen you bought me.
To write yellow poetry, you said,
your eyes green and proud,
and so I wrote.
I wrote about the yellow icing
glazed on those cupcakes
we made so long ago.
And the yellow cotton towel
you used to wrap me up in.
Then I took a photograph of your yellow hair - the sun's glare
reflecting off it
Until, cancer stripped it away
and left it in a yellow mess on the floor.
Then you understood why the cupcakes
turned to metal in your mouth and
why I plucked the feathers from my pen
as you lay paralyzed, unable to stop me
-feathers around us, floating too damn softly.
And when I stood naked,
a towel less child
a mother's womb
you could no longer speak-
your yellow words stolen, floating
through and through
the cold hospital room.
Pretend we’re in Paris, I whispered
in your ear, when the feeding tube
was not enough to keep you alive.
We are now walking into the Louvre.
And I knew you were standing in front
of the Mona Lisa
when you smiled -
But you did not laugh
Because you knew-
I would never be yellow
and neither would you.