I fell in love with the colours in his head. His mind was a walk among a forest of kaleidoscopes. Every shade and pattern altered into wonderful, intricate landscapes with each thought he opened up and shared. It was like standing below stained glass as the sun rose, being bathed in arcs of emotional rainbows.
He was North weather; billowing clouds, sunbursts, frosty mornings, heavy downpours. I loved the leak of his walk, the crests of the sea in his throat as he laughed at the stories I tried to snag him with - the big salmon surety of himself, comfortable in his own skin.
Then the greys slinked in. Beautiful beasts hanging low along the furrowed anguish of his brow. He became fields caught unsteady beneath the pressure of an existence lived racing the edges of a plough. His horizon was foxes skittering into cities, the meat of his history grown haggard and slim.
And I lost the brilliance of him, the suddenness of his laughter in the dark along the kite-string destiny that held us together and apart. The corners of his rooms chameleoned him into a dusty thing, cobwebbed and weary - an unravelling string being.
His colours faded, became shadows and ghosts. The landscape of his life eclipsed by the thought of endings and tombs. He became an exclamation mark lying flat along the borders of his hope he’d given up trying to breach.
He became chalk on a wall, disappearing wetly under the weight of his rainstorm soul.