Pink and Blue

The morning clouds are pink and blue like a bruise across the sky. Pure white vapour trails crisscross them like scars. Thin skin laid bare. Her eyes graze the sky as she casts her gaze to the horizon.

The wind rises from the shore, losing momentum as it climbs the headland. When it reaches her, it is a breeze smelling salty rich like bladderwrack. The sea is a gunmetal green expanse stretching out before her. The coldness of its aspect is a balm to her soul.

In the kitchen, on a shelf of MDF covered in chipped white melamine, stands a tea caddy. Its blue is deep, its pink is sugared, fans and cherry blossom on an evening sky. It isn’t muted like the colours in the clouds. It isn’t muted like her button mouth. It isn’t muted like the still and endless sea.

She stretches out her arms and the blanket she has wrapped around her body for warmth falls to the ground in a heap of red, blue and green tartan. She stretches out her arms, in love with the world and the canopy of sky surrounding it. In love with the world yet hating everything in it.

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