Indigo

On the edge of an old wooden dock sat a writer,

wrapped in a trench coat,

lost in thought.

They sat there to rest and to take in the night

after hours of walking the shoreline alone.

For years, they had walked through life, alone.

They looked at the water that stretched out before them,

and watched as the rippling waves met the shore.

The sky was a palette of violets and blues

and something deeper.

Indigo.

The kind of indigo that looks in the soul and knows what is there,

all its hopes and wishes and innermost secrets.

Indigo sees you and knows you and loves you

for who you are

and for always.

And among this indigo, the writer saw stars, familiar stars,

maybe from somewhere long ago.

Yes…

they remembered.

They remembered the days

they would watch those stars, whirling and dancing, in her eyes.

And they remembered the feeling--it felt like the world fell away,

and all that remained were her eyes

and a writer who fell in love faster and further each second.

They should have told her.

Now there was nothing to do,

nothing but sit and remember

the person who had been their indigo.

This writer is who I may become; I know that.

And I know I mustn’t make their mistakes.

So I won’t.

I found my indigo.

I loved,

I lost.

When I find indigo again,

I’ll do it all again.

Unrealistic, yes--unthinkable, yes: to be loved in return.

And perhaps I won’t be.

But I know

that if I never take chances to act upon my feelings,

I will walk through life

regretful and alone.

And I know that when I take those chances,

I may risk it all.

But I know that when I take those chances,

I may touch the stars.

I have always believed in indigo.

I have always believed in love.

I have always been resilient

and I will not give up.

I cannot wait to find my indigo

and tell them they are my indigo.

I cannot wait to find my indigo

and tell them that I love them.

I know loss,

but I know love,

and I know that it’s worth it.

I know that it's worth it

just to find

my indigo.