Photo by Greta Unetich
I wish to be all the blue that touches you,
The color around and between my fingers,
Off the dark blue deep end.
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I made my bed with the pink comforter today for the first time in days. Carry me to this bed. Lay me down and pull me apart with your nails. We always joke about wanting to die, but I’d let you do it. All the tears I will ever cry for you will be tears of love.
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I know we are both aware that we do not have weeks, we have days. It wasn’t the time itself; it was what I chose to do with it.
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I’m holding the hand of another behind me but reaching forward to the hand of you, willing this to not be another heartbreak of loss.
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One of the buttons I slid into my bag was for you, blue and pointed with a flower printed on it. We do not have days, we have hours.
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Because she knows I am scared, a friend tells me of the delicacy of confessions.
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I haven’t made my bed, now the one with the gray comforter, or the blue comforter, since I’ve been home. I wish I had something to offer you but I have nothing. I wish I had known. I would have taken a picture of you, asked you what color your bed was.
Kindergarten 