The rose-colored glasses lay on the ground
cracked, slightly, still functional,
and with it, the unrealistic enthusiasm.
The last blow was the last:
No more bending over backwards
to pick them up.
No more desperate attempts
to peek at the world
through a monochromatic distortion.
My stubborn spine refuses to bend
like it used to, to the whim of love and lovers
My stubborn neck refuses to look
over my unburdened shoulders
to brood over a past that exists no longer.
The world in its true multitude of hues
lies ahead for the naked eye to embrace.
