Steel Blue

Watercolors drip down the white wall you’ve built between us

(at least you cared enough to make it beautiful)

And I only hope my cadence scribbled in Crayola will find it’s way to you.

I said the last time I felt this way was in the third grade

But now I’m free to do what I want

Which means no more asking my mom if I’m allowed to tell a boy I like him

Now

I just call her and see if I can tell in the pauses of her words if she thinks its wise that I let you know how I feel

More than just

Like.

I feel bright lemonade yellow and red apple polka dots

I feel the way a ceiling feels when its oil-painted blue with white clouds

Or the way my ukulele feels about being purple.

I try to take black words and tie-dye them on plain white pages

Try to make you feel what I do when we’re in a room together

Like laying in August grass without it scratching at our forearms

To look at the sky and feel like I’m falling into it

is one split second of looking into your eyes

How can I make you understand that

I can nearly see the oil painting you stepped out of?

If you had lived

Side by side with Michelangelo

We would not know the statue of David as we do know

He would be kneeling to the gold framed portrait of you.

How can I make you understand

That the backdrop you think grey

Is really a steel blue?

How can I dust down to your intended colors

If I cannot touch you?

If I touch you,

I may ruin you.

And if I do not ruin you

The dust will fly into my eyes

And blind me

while making you as beautiful as once intended.

How can I make myself understand

That that is exactly what I am doing now?

Blinding myself to make you more beautiful?

How can I make myself understand

That you are nothing more

Than all the colors I ever thought beautiful?

All you will ever be

Is colors

And I will always be a canvas:

Empty.

Waiting.

-P.J.

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