Colour Me Your Love

It was not by the colour of our skin that our love was built,
but my blood that sang to the beat of his heart.

It was not by the ebony of my skin,
that greatly contrasted the cream of his,
But by the dancing of our bodies under the moonlight.

Nor was it about the onyx of my afro,
or the blonde of his waves,
but how his fingers felt buried in my hair.

Yet,
Still we met in darkness,
where my shadow and his would kiss;
and our lips would whisper,
his ear to my lips.

Yet,
we were forced to muffle moans,
stifle laughter-
and let the stories of our days, our hearts narrate.
Only in the woods could he my desires sate.

Yet,
for my skin they lynched,
for his honour he kept mum.
Watched as my clothes they tore,
as my blood that beat for his heart they shed.

Yet,
I pleaded.
My hand held by death;
I invoked that he remember,
promises whispered in the dark,
vows passed between pulsing lips.

Yet,
fear he befriended.
And in my presence my lover wilted;
a man I thought a hero,
finally just a mere mortal,
and we were what they saw;
black and white.