Have you ever thought about it? Why depict love in colours? Why look at love in a whole new light? Why you even choose to love? I wouldn’t say it is wrong to disperse the emotions that come with a yearning for a significant other when everyone around you is hitched. I wouldn’t say it is okay to build your heart around fortified walls with boulders and thorns adorning your whole being.

I don’t say a lot of things, I still wouldn’t… but I will because Love is not describable.


Love: the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul whilst understanding that it doesn’t mean leaning and company and security.

Love: the distinct knowledge that kisses aren’t contracts and gifts aren’t promises.

Love: Planting your heart and watering it with your soul while fueling your passion with an intense warmth that burns like thousands of fireflies moulded together in existence of another flesh.


Love: Discerning that love should be waited for and not sought after in the seemingly right places.

The colours of love aren’t unambiguous. They transcend the subconscious to become reflections, a restlessness that causes flutters to your invisible wings, make them soar and dive within and lust for a mind that becomes your meshed chaos of excitement and grounding.


I have come to understand that Love is clumsy and my heart refuses to wear a helmet, that I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and on the water and on the wind until they found me, that Love knew it was called love and when I lifted my eyes to your name, your heat showed me the way.


I saw myself for the first time without the lens of your certainty and began to bask in the portal of orgasm the universe of your eyes burrowed into my cores

Our colours, moulded together, have erupted like volcanoes, entwining us because you fell in love with my roots and not my petals and you have chosen to divide your joy with me. Giving me the confidence to rewrite the definition of brevity: To love you over and again, without stopping, without slacking.


When fire meets gasoline when the clock strikes twelve when the ice thaws… when Love itself is the remnants left when being in love has burned away, the colours of your love will always rest within.

The flower doesn’t dream of the Bees, it blossoms and the Bees come.  I’ve always seen myself as a flower and my words as Bees. The words come to me and I create magic with them.  My name is Iteoluwakishi and I write because it is an escape route for me. Therapeutic and a hobby.

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