I painted My Walls Brown

I painted my walls brown, the shade of my delusions, the tincture of my fallacies. I tried to hide the tears, but they altered to mud cracks, leaving them to dry in peace.
I closed my eyes and watched what might eventuate. I have endeavored in my expectations to keep as close as possible to elucidate my mind. But brown is all I saw.
Painting over existing memories, the day you said I looked beautiful till the day you said I looked even more beautiful. My walls have a beat, secrets that are kept deep, the idea of you and me. They heard me laughing, crying seemingly about you. The phone rang, an ode to the conversations we had. I gave the ceiling my lingering dreams, my restless yearnings, my childish fairytales, the books thrown away, and pages never sent, expecting the ghosts of you to drop ears.
Haply, I am not a painter in lieu, I made brown a poetry. I remained drawing umber lines, soft speaking words on canvas. Brown insinuated a story of the depth of inflamed intensity that rhythmed with my life and emotional desires.
It was, still my dearest color, reminded me of a double shot espresso, one sip of aroma, and bold like the usual. Vintage jacket made from painting smears, classic shoes, and footprints on the harvest moon. Bronze-cloud waves, gold of the rising sun glaze.
Brown complimented my dark green eyes and suited my pastoral vitality. Brown played with six strings, with smaller chords pitches, slower pace, and drab timbres; I can hear it closely, the sadness and weariness that blemished the dulcet tones.
I scratched my brown painting, the shade of my certainties, the tincture of my authenticities. I watched my walls caving in as it was no longer playing it safe; All that our brick walls previously blocked, my view was discernible. I wish you had thought this through before I went with my solid strokes and sweeping brush till I made a mural of you in my own realm.
Rain washed away the faint sepia tinge of the sky, and poured against the palette. My world, the woods, the mountains have gone blue, like you, being to be so far apart as to be unbridgeable. Here I am, unclad and vacant, a white glare, waiting for adoration, on top of being painted.
I painted my walls brown; it was all by design; Brown I made you, brown you became.