Blue
Blue,
like a whisper behind glass,
keeps its secrets folded in saltwater.
It doesn’t shout—
just lingers
in the air between questions.
There are days
when blue stretches its long limbs
across the sky,
lazy and endless,
a sigh from a god who forgot
what he meant to say.
It lives in the eyes
of strangers you almost loved,
and in the silence
after good music ends.
Blue is memory’s favorite color,
smeared across the backs
of photographs and promises.
It has weight—
the kind you carry in your chest
but can’t name
in ounces or regrets.
It clings to the ribs
like a hymn
you only hum.
Some nights,
blue walks the shoreline alone,
watching the moon try on
all her silver dresses,
never satisfied.
It is the pause
before “I miss you,”
and the space
between waves.
Blue
never needs permission to stay.
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