If love is blind, as it should be, it sees no colour, and its own shade is on display for those who are not in love. I began my love in blue and pink as defined by the gender-police. My own colour was green, albeit the season of spring had rolled out since paving for the winter where shades of grey had gained notoriety and grace.
If love is blind, it reads the temperature. Rainbow is a warm black. Smoking gun. The sacrifices stream gooey penumbra.