pantones:

i associate my first kiss with a kaleidoscope of two very specific shades i can pin by number, color code the moment like this: the blue shock of a chlorinated pool tangling with a blazing july

sunburst, or the way she tasted like sweet citrus, carried lemonheads in the pocket of her charlotte hornet’s starter jacket,traces of sugar sticking to those purples; teals. it was summer when she kissed me; we hid

and she pulled the neck of her white t-shirt over her mouth, breathing hot through cotton, lemon-yellow sweet, my own mouth opening with a mind of her own. i remember the summer storm

that flooded the old church parking lot, remember how we waded knee deep, denim clinging to our thighs. our bodies touching as we pushed cars from the wash, passed under the fading turquoise

sign. the same storm flooded the street outside our first longer-than-a-year home. a river washing gray- blue asphalt, spilling over green bladed banks, deep enough for my brothers to pretend to surf. that was the first house where my mom painted the walls something other than eggshell

that horrible rental tan. when it rains, the world is water-colored to life and i think: this is what it should always look like— saturated. wet. it took me until my twenties to figure out how to explain that i preferred the rain— among other things

my mother painted the five-year house in rich shades, accented an entire wall with sparkling gold, applied— in diamond formation— with a plastic grocery bag. it reminded me of painting my grandmother's car with rollers, house paint, and ten bottles of iridescent glitter.

in florida, everything feels like a primary color when you’re outside. looking out the sliding glass door i was achingly aware of the tear in the brown leather sofa, and the chill of the air-conditioned room against my sunburn. you begged for my mouth, asked me to keep your secret. sometimes

no means you can never go back. i grew up a series of painted walls, a changing aesthetic. like this: i didn’t realize i might be gay until i was twenty-six and even then i couldn’t make sense of her. but i know now

i prefer morning light, hope to somehow go prism and find myself in the refracting, if i have to choose

let me be like the sky: the way she is always every color but all we can see is blue.

*poem formatting (above) does not match original intended format of the piece. link to file with correct formatting: https://www.dropbox.com/s/2cpcweeedxuyo0y/vocal%20submission_05.16.20_pantones.docx?dl=0