It’s an overcast morning, and my mood feels very much the same.
Pensive and reflective.
Gray with a touch of pink.
Certain Sunday mornings arrive heavy for no particular reason, full of familia.
Rolling thunder in the distance, longings emerge with memories that always come with a tear and a smile.
Gray with a touch of pink.
I try not to let it be primary, but necessary it is, gray is a color that represents my grief.
I’ve come to learn to sit with it. To learn from its hues and fades, always emerging a tad bit stronger.
The gray leads way to blue, and the pink that represents Hope always remains.
Perhaps I’ll always be gray with a touch of pink, but pink is my primary.
Pensive and reflective.
Gray with a touch of pink.
Certain Sunday mornings arrive heavy for no particular reason, full of familia.
Rolling thunder in the distance, longings emerge with memories that always come with a tear and a smile.
Gray with a touch of pink.
I try not to let it be primary, but necessary it is, gray is a color that represents my grief.
I’ve come to learn to sit with it. To learn from its hues and fades, always emerging a tad bit stronger.
The gray leads way to blue, and the pink that represents Hope always remains.
Perhaps I’ll always be gray with a touch of pink, but pink is my primary.
