The colour of my green

"My favourite colour is green," he said, as his silver eyes reflected the encroaching storm clouds and the stark flashes of distant lightning.

"Green?", I repeated. "Like...", I looked around the park for an example. "Grass green?" I brushed a bare toe across the feathery tops of the soft grass underneath me. A thoughtful frown spread across his face, just as the first hiss of thick, hot, storm-wind ruffled the curls on his forehead.
"No…", he whispered slowly. Bending forward, he curled his long fingers around a single, healthy blade of grass. With a twist of his lips, he scraped his thumbnail across the length of the blade. In the wake of his nail, the blade's jade blood wept from the shredded flesh, which had turned almost black. The black of the very depths of an untouched jungle.
"That colour of green," he said, and his words were punctured with the first roll of thunder. I stared at the blade of grass, its once proud back now doubled over limply, its spine snapped forever. Soon, it would turn brown.
The first raindrop fell.