Candy floss can be pink.

Pink like your little sister's favourite nail polish.

Pink like that girl's lipstick on the bus.

Pink like that boy's hair on the train.

Pink like your nose and cheeks when you have been out in the cold winter wind.

Pink like the shirt that your maths teacher hates but always wears on his wife's birthday, their anniversary and on Valentine's day. Just because it's her favourite shirt.

Pink like the bottom edge of the clouds when the sun sets on a sunny yet cloudy day in the middle of summer, tingeing the world in a beautiful orangey pink colour that would warm even the coldest of people's hearts.

Pink like the way love feels.

Candy floss can be blue.

Blue like your baby blanket that your brother took with him when he moved out because thinks its better than his old blue teddy and because he thinks that you don't care any more, even though you really do.

Blue like that mean old lady's handbag on the bus.

Blue like those 'holier-than-thou' preachers banner at the train station.

Blue like the world when winter comes and the day ends early, and with the darkness come the people who dwell in the shadows, their intentions darker than their surroundings.

Blue like the blue suit jacket that your maths teacher wears on a Friday to spite his wife when they are arguing because she hates it, and you hate it because he's been wearing it for the past thirteen Fridays.

Blue like the sky and sea on the summer days when you go to the beach to think, staring at the blurry blue line that separates the two huge expanses of colour, on the horizon, silent tears streaming down your face.

Blue like the way sorrow feels.

Candy floss can be yellow.

Yellow like your favourite teddy bear that you've had all your life and still have on your bed.

Yellow like the laces on the shoes of that really cute person you met on the bus.

Yellow like the ribbons a mystery vandalist tied and stuck everywhere in the early hours of the morning on the train you take for fun.

Yellow like the snow you dare all your friends to eat, despite being told less than five minutes ago to 'never eat yellow snow' by your guardians, as you leave the house on the first snow day of the year.

Yellow like your maths teacher's new bag that his new, much more supportive girlfriend bought for his birthday, knowing yellow was his favourite colour.

Yellow like the summer dress you made for your mother, that you know she loves, loves because you made it for her and put a year's effort into making it perfect, just for her.

Yellow like the way joy feels.