yellowgold

that bedroom was supposed to feel like spring. like something that was yellow, budding, brand new.

spring always seemed to sprint past, but it couldn't outrun the blond wood of the new dresser, the wet roots of the jar-bound monstera, or the gold-framed wildflower print on the wall.

it was supposed to feel like spring.

and what of yellow? it was the color of falling in love, I knew that to be true. the color of something enticing yet patient. like a sundress sown with quality of a velvet evening gown. it was a waiting place, a don't miss this place, a delicate place. the bedroom I chose.

yellow through the ages. the bright and brilliant fascination that burned behind my eyes seven years ago. the flirtation and the whimsy, the folklore where my colorlove started. yellow, the shade of captivation and youth.

I begin to study it again, scarcely knowing what I am doing, or what you are up to. yellow takes over my playlist covers with subtle insistence. a screenshot of a gustav klimt painting. an inkling to buy an old perfume. a satin slip dress.

softly and cleanly I am persuaded: I must have yellow wildflower bedding.

the months-long illusion breaks open like afternoon sunlight, soundtracked by once-tender, painful music that has calloused over.

yellow is the color of falling in love, through and through. it cannot help itself.

so then, you must choose your yellow. affection is available in many shades, even on the soured edges of the hue.

a flagrant, flirtation type of yellow, do you claim it? a false love. a shade bordering on chartreuse, filled with anxiety and chagrin, will you accept it? yes, it is available, and it stinks like alcohol. do you choose cheap and easy and compromise?

no, this is not that color. my yellow is deep and gold-threaded. one look at my bedroom reveals the truth: wildflower yellow love is a waiting thing. and a trusting thing. honest down to its bones. tender and true.

the yellow motif is a geode, just cracked open. your watering can has circled back with blooms even the seeds would not recognize.

I search for yellow's meanings in art history, and stumble once again upon gustav klimt and the kiss. I discover that klimt's beloved works appear a brilliant yellow when photographed or reproduced. yet in reality he painted with pure gold.

oh! the value!

the weight does not miss me. it is a royal type of treasure, a heart in full bloom. no one can purchase integrity, honesty, courage. it can only be chosen. waited for.

with that courage I allow myself to listen to an old song in a new room. despite the track's popularity, I had nearly forgotten the lyrics.

[with drums and insistince] I will wait for you.

I sing along, letting the banjo and guitar intermingle in folkish delight. but it is the bridge that leaves me tearful:

raise my hands

paint my spirit gold

and bow my head

keep my heart slow

I am a dustcloth slid into the sun. bathed in golden glory, revelation. warm, dazzling light.

I push the track to the top of the playlist I have created as part of a moodboard for this new room. it is like preparing for something coming, which I have a say in, but no control over.

it is the birthplace for an achievement I have been tirelessly chasing for a long time. pressure-less delight. trust. a refusal of counterfeit goods. an absorbing of the beauty around and within. waiting for the real thing.

I repent, I repent. I am not beautiful in order to accumulate looks of love on every side. I do not harness attraction to catch something I can't keep. something I don't want to keep.

I am a softer and more patient type of yellowgold than I have ever been before. I am a waiting, trusting shade.

I see why it was important to you that I be in this room. I follow you. like yellow, I cannot help it.

intuition or your spirit? in obedience you reveal to me mere fragments of glory, letting me discover it as if it were my own.

and it is. the gift has long been mine. like wine, it has aged seven years and only just been opened. mine to savor, to drink, to sleep beneath.

mine to keep.