by Nicholas Barnes
i cried in black and white this morning. still no color to be seen. just achromatic fear and dread. i dreamed i was lost in the thorns. i couldn’t find you before the clouds opened up. these mental hail storms come out of nowhere. even on a sunday stroll down on the waterfront. among the cherry trees, something pale and peroxide boomerangs back. a reminder that everything is less vivid now. no, i couldn’t seem to muster up a real smile, for you or your glass vivitar lens. even though all i could have wanted was beside you. union station trains wailing nightingale. river winds plunging into the blooming stone fruit. it was beautiful. i knew deep down it was sublime. but i felt something else. something opposite. i saw a fella who looked like me mirrored in the willamette. stripping all the linen white, baby cheek pink, and plum purple from the branches. as if those cherries on the bank never had any pigment at all. but an angel once told me true love brings the color back. help me stop these colors from fading. love, be my easel. my paintbrush. i want to find my dna in a box of pastels. i want to unearth a custom antidote. i want to cover the alleyways with brushstrokes of myself. put your lipstick on. let’s stain the streets with wild roses.
Nicholas Barnes is a poet living in Portland, Oregon whose work has appeared in over seventy publications including Juked, HAD, and Cola Literary Review. His debut chapbook, Restland, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in 2025.