The Pink Parchment

Paint my parchment paper pink, in the tincture of tenderness, the ineffable blush of intimacies that language perpetually fails to anatomise.

Let the margins harbour my ephemera half-remembered reveries, incipient longings, and those liminal hours where melancholy becomes almost beautiful.

Annotate the silences between my sentences; there is often more veracity there than in anything I have the temerity to confess.

Let every stanza become an elegy for something unnamed yet irrevocable, a palimpsest of affections I have carried beyond their expiration.

And if the page must remember me, let it remember me tenderly as someone who found transcendence in the quotidian, and made a liturgy of longing.

Paint my parchment paper pink, for even my sorrow has always been tinged with the audacity of love.