Well, Writch I find it difficult to fathom anything constructive to aid this delightful piece of prose you've brought together here; but then again, I was never the critique.
I will tell you this, however. The use of colour I found interesting. It's wonderfully descriptive and makes someone like me (a little slow on analysing and understanding) find it somewhat more 'friendly' to apprehend. It adds another texture if you like. I found a myriad of rainbows in here, and I very much enjoyed that experience. Thanks 
Chromatose
by Writch
The celestial lantern slips down under twenty-two shades of vermilion clouds into Neptune’s realm behind Mt. Shasta. Golden brilliance reflects off and through a million jasper slivers of sleet. The carnelian sheets of ice hit the pavement, shattering, melting, collecting, reflecting back from a hundred puce puddles echoing the plums of Heaven’s watercolor above.
When darkness cloaks lightness in the sky, the lightness of my soul dons a twilight robe. With some trepidation I reflect at my phantom reflection in the plate glass window that’s thrown there by the fluorescent bulbs of the mercury streetlamps waking each other up along the soaked boulevard below. A street sweeper scoops bits of trash and cigarette butts that have pooled into the iridescent shallow rivers from sunset‘s crying.
Evidence of sobbing mars my own face. False eyelashes from the outsides of my eyes have come loose and stick to the sides of my face. My expressions are in quotations making them look less than genuine. A comma shaped smudge of blood from the corner of my mouth where he hit me gives me the impression that I have yet more to say. My lover used to care for that same mouth of mine that he smacked so hard. Maybe he thought cute little mouths were like cute little children: to be seen and not heard. He used to say that my smile was so perfect that the Tooth Fairy himself must have been my guardian angel. But tonight the Tooth Fairy has an errand to run after a trip to her ethereal ATM. Under my pillow she’ll have to collect the fragments of my smashed happiness and return them back to wherever the Sisterhood of Dental Collections Local 314 deposit repo’d canines. I get up out of my full lotus, collect the pieces of my smile from the blood-stained shattered glass and broken frame of our prom photo that he flung at me to try to silence me.
In these November hours of the day, I nest in my futon, and watch the sun diver with celebration, with awe. I try to return to my quotidian rhythm of evening centering after the interruption of an afternoon eruption. Through the plate glass window the twenty-two shades and million slivers curtain soon are drawn to reveal forty-seven billion diamonds. The poor Pleiades are chased by an obsessive Orion with the dog star Sirius baying at his heels. The Hunter will never give reprieve to the Seven Sisters.
My attention drops back down to the crimson drips spattered on the sepia images among the crystal mess. He used to pursue me. I thought it was courtship. He knew it was seduction. At the beginning, the language of our chase was colored with the red of roses. But the path of passion is fertile and grows fast and furious. The pillow talk of our rose bed sprouted intimacies hued with scarlet tones. Petaled and thorned confessions choked and tangled our talk. My sentiments became richer with the deeper romantic shades of blood that course through my veins in matters of the heart. His words adjusted the chat to lighten it into carnal tints with milky white of seminal innuendo.
It took time for me to notice – no, not quite… to stop denying - his pink and pearl words. He was scared of the taste cherries that dripped from my tongue and the rubies that sparkled in my eyes. I felt the wavelengths stretch as distance increased. My girlish blush of innocence was tempered by sadness and the blues. I felt marooned.
My morose mood blued and chilled my responses to him into a cold slate hardness. Gray was my state and suspected. His fleshy colored talk cut off from the vitality of its carnal source turned gangrenous and stunk of green jealousy infected with the pus of possessiveness.
Author's Note: This was "prose scribbling" - no plot or real character - just playing with colors and moody-words in experiments to see if I can nudge readers' attitudes into the space(s) I wanted them for the sake of development. So call it a sketch.
Also, I was trying to write from an abused female perspective. "Putting yourself in another's shoes" often cultivate genuine empathy and not knee-jerk sympathy.
It is what it is.
Writch
P.S. And, yes, "I felt marooned." was an intentional pun since I mixed red imagery with "the blues."
Update Edit: "Whoops" on the Subject with the mispelled name, and "Humours" as in The Four Temperments, not Comedy. Abuse is not funny.