Indigo

I took her in with great detail that day. A sparkly star hairpin shooting out of dark-as-night curls. Bronze eyelids outlined indigo. No longer dressed all in gray, she glowed.

“Don’t look at me that way,” she said, but I had to so that I would remember the day.

She touched my cheek, goodbye. Held my face and closed her eyes. Said it all with touch, instead, the healing kind that woke in me a love I had never known next to a man.

“Don’t turn me into a story,” she said, but I had to remember the way home.