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.