You’ve always been red

She describes her lover as blue in the book I’m reading And I’m here in a blue shirt my dad bought me years ago on one of his work trips. But all I can think about is your blue swimsuit the one I saw once in a picture, on the same day I told myself I really had to move on.

That was the day I dreamt I ate blue ice cream, the same day my bedroom walls were painted white but the blue still showed through if you looked closely. It was still there; the white did nothing to cover it up.

But I would never describe you as blue. You’ve always been more red than blue. More fire than water. More volcano than ocean. No one has ever looked at you and thought blue. You’ve always been red heated, impulsive, spicy, passionate.

So I don’t know why this book, Bluets, made me cry, or why I kept associating you with that color you never were. You were never calm, or aloof. Even when you were miserable, you had fire in your eyes, as if you rebelled on principle to be blue.

And if I had ever sung, I’m blue, if I were green I would die, you probably would’ve said green was a better color anyway. You always related to it more. You had that green tie. You loved nature especially photographing it. But still, you were not blue. Maybe at some point you were black dense, heavy, a kind of darkness people could feel. But not blue.

So I don’t know why I thought of you. Why a book about blue things made me think only of how my lover isn’t blue he’s red. Why it made me think about your brown eyes with flecks of green, or the time you held my hand wearing a blue T-shirt already damp with nervous sweat even though you were the best looking guy in school.

Sure, our school sweatpants were blue. But you were never blue, not really. You were always some other color, some other shade.

You were always red. And I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about it why I keep blaming myself for being red like you. Because maybe you never needed red. Maybe I never needed red. And maybe red and red don’t mix.

But blue and red make purple, and maybe what we needed all along was purple. Not more red. Not red wine, not red stains, not the same old fire. And maybe I’m to blame. Or maybe we both are for choosing red over blue. For loving each other when we should’ve chosen something softer. Like blue or purple But not red.