The Colours of You

I remember you in all your shades.

Rainbow lasers and checkered blue on the dance floor. Gray smoke covers everything in fine mist. Your body embraces a gold strobe light. I stand in the corner and watch you move with wild grace. Blonde hair tied by a single pink ribbon whips around your face. Orchid lipstick and cobalt eyeshadow and I don’t know what song they’re playing for you. You laugh when it ends. It’s a wild laugh, one born of heart and not mind. It’s purple, your laughter, and I need to see it again.

Black night rushes dangerously towards dawn. You’re sitting on the edge of a patio sipping a neon green drink and watching a yellow moon descend. A tiny coral parasol sits behind your reddening ears. You hum commercial jingles from your youth. Your shoulders move involuntarily. A sepia bra strap peaks out from an aquamarine tank top. I step towards you quietly, my head swimming with alcoholic euphoria, born out of throbbing bass, crowded tables and three-minute fast songs.

Your eyes are green. I learn that later as we sit together in a booth at an all-night diner that serves soggy waffles and burnt coffee. I watch your fingernails. Painted turquoise, they shine in the fluorescent light. You touch your hair too much. You slouch down and point to a man in thick black glasses who sits at the counter alone eating a mountain of bacon and reading “Wuthering Heights” and chuckling to himself. I choke on my ice water, trying not to laugh, and bang my elbow against the table. Your hand is on my arm.

Your bedroom ceiling is beige. I walk you home and you tell me how you’re not really into the club scene. You tell me that you’re not looking for one-night-stands. You want love, you say, as the sky over the horizon turns orange. You want truth, you tell me, as the birds peck at the grass. This isn’t really you, you insist, and the morning light catches your face.

Hug me, you tell me, as we reach your door. Tighter, you whisper, as my hand goes through your hair. ‘Kiss’ you mumble into my shoulder. Orchid lipstick tastes like blueberry. Your bedroom ceiling is beige. Your body is warm. You laugh when we make love. It’s a wild laugh, one born of heart, and not mind. It’s purple, your laughter, and I need to see it again.

You fade from my life with ease. After disappearing for weeks, you come back to my doorstep in an Indigo sundress. Your hair has pink tips. ‘Adventure’ you tell me, and your eyes shine to emerald. We find every fountain in the city, snapping pictures of each, and then end our night singing Jewel songs in my car down by the beach. The ocean is cerulean in the evening; the waves are crested with ivory. You fall asleep on my shoulder.

I ask you as we lay together under a lavender comforter why you come back to me. “Your fireplace,” you tell me, hair over your face. “I don’t have a fireplace,” I retort, touching your thigh. “You will,” you say, laughing.

You write me letters on thick azure paper. Your handwriting is quiet. You tell me about your sadness, about your life, and about what you want. You want love, you tell me, in small cursive letters. You want truth, you tell me, in midnight blue ink.

I lose you in another crowded club. You’re wearing magenta and shining in the dark. You drink translucent drinks and spin on your toes, a stumbling ballerina of the city. The sea of bodies on the dance floor consumes us both. I find you outside, smoking a single cigarette and standing beside a man with curly hair. You touch his arm too much. I stand by the door and listen as you tell him that you’re not really into the club scene. You laugh when he talks. It’s purple, your laughter, and I need to see it again.

I always thought of you in terms of colours. There are so many shades to you. You yell at me later, when you see me on the swing set at the park near your house. I want love, you yell, your eyes obscured by powder blue mascara. I want truth, you scream, through honeydew tears. I stare at you there and wish for cold grey rain. Your eyes meet mine and all I want to ask you is whether you know. What am I, I demand, the boy on the swing? You’re so many things, so many phases, so many colours, but me - in love and in truth - what colour am I?