when they met Chris felt pink and smelled of death; Sam was deepest blue and ocean air.
their courtship was a short, intense strip of velvet laid across something hard colored too faintly to be made out (and they made out *a lot*).
the time in the middle was the number 7, tall and imposing, with a color that swam up and down the spectra from ultraviolet to infrared and into unknowable spaces beyond,
where it gamboled and frolicked in void. the last week, too-dry and sour, left Sam feeling pink and Chris blue.
the separation was inevitable, an adjective that sounds like the weary plodding of footsteps across a hardwood floor.
dull silver heartbreak brought them to a clanging close, its would-be echoes swallowed by silence bitter as Campari.