Blue

Tell me, have you learned to listen to the sky yet?

Have you learned her language?

For three nights I traipsed throughout the moonlit streets, whispering messages to passing clouds, to the empty seats at bus-stops, to telephone wires and the sparrows atop, to papers in the wind in and the planes up above. I left my last words for you in the back shelves of corner stores, in the seats of vacant diners, etched out in pavement along the tired roads, and in the maps of faraway places. With every step, I dug holes in the sidewalk, slipping the stars we named six-feet-under—covering it back up with cement and dust and leaving them unattended. I don’t expect them to grow. I doubt they ever will. But I hope no one ever digs them up.

Look up to the sky, and let your body become blue

Lift up, and let yourself become true.

In the morning I’ll lift my drooping arms to water each and every one—saying my thank-yous, saying my goodbyes, winding myself back up, and wander my way back home. I’ll retrace my steps, and drag them out from their graves, breathe them back to life, and put them away. They are my stars now. They are mine. I’ll rename each one, and kiss them goodbye, and in the night I’ll lift up, pull them out from my pockets, and rearrange the sky.

But here you are, to waltz in like a prince, reaching out your hands to collide, like stars, with me, again.

And here I am, only to cut off my silver tongue, soaked in frankincense and myrrh, handing it to you with outstretched arms. And here I am, to break apart my starlit crown, spitting the shards at your wandering feet. And here I am, to take back the piece you took—I’ll sew it back into the bones of my chest, and cut the strings that draped from yours,

and I’ll color myself blue.

And in another lifetime, you’ll drag your gingered feet through dried-up lakes,

finding me, blued by the touch of the sky, dancing about dusk, and starting fires with flick of my tongue.

And you’ll stare at your feet,

as I start to get bored,

and you’ll tell me about the lessons you’ve learned (even though they’re not your stories to tell).

I’m blue,

But not cold.

Blue, like the color of truth.

Like the color of the sky.

Like the color of myself.

Perhaps we’ll meet again, under the light of a waxing moon,

sharing the guts of summer melons,

only to discuss our favorite shade of blue.

But for now, I’ll drift about the trees;

picking cherries from high hanging branches,

walking barefoot into the sun,

spitting out the pits.