Is youth wasted on the young?

Ha!

I wouldn't know;

I'm not old enough

To

Tell.

Is money wasted on the poor?

Ha!

I wouldn't know;

I'm not rich enough

To

Tell.

Truly, I'm

Not old enough

Or rich enough

Or smart enough

Or sweet enough

Or monkish enough

To

Ever

Tell.

Appreciation

Is for

The old

The thoughtful

The religious

And the blessed.

I'm too

Young

Poor

Stupid

Mean

Spiritual

To tell.

I'm simply

Too young

To appreciate

The love

The kindness

The beauty

Of life.

I still wonder: What did you see in me that day?

Some people are Yellow, like sunflowers and canary feathers. Some are as Green and dark as winter pine needles, or sharp as fresh-mown grass. Others are dark Brown like chocolate, bright Orange like citrine necklaces, or Purple like the soft, faded glow of an evening sky.

But I was...Blue. Not a vibrant, peacock-proud, oceans-and-clear-skies Blue; no, I was the kind of Blue people forgot about.

I was the color of those grayish, leftover oceanside puddles you walk over on the way to the exciting part of the beach. Most people only look at that kind of blue when it gets their feet wet, and only then because it’s cold and murky and a little lonely, being so far from the sea.

People forgot about me because I was forgettable and transient, like water passing through open fingers.

It had always been that way, since I had lost my hurricane temper and lightning-flash smiles. The fog banks of time had taken those away, stripping away my Sapphire and Indigo until only my dull, Grayish Blue remained.

No one thought I was beautiful. No one thought I was unique. I was just...there. Like a single raindrop falling on your cheek or the uncertain, paling shade that precedes dawn. All the Yellows and Greens, Browns and Oranges, Purples and even the other, brighter Blues saw me. But they always looked away.

Not you, though. Even when I didn’t know it, you were looking right at me.

I remember the way your rosebud lips curved up under burning-hot eyes like it was last night’s dream.

Sometimes I still wonder if it was real or not. Do you remember that day as well as I do?

You were Red as Valentine’s Day--red, like cranberries and maraschino cherries, raspberries and dahlia flowers.

“I’ve seen you around,” you said. “What a lovely shade of Blue you are.” And even your voice was robin’s wings and cardinal calls.

I didn’t know what to say. Your Red was too bright, too spectacular, for someone as dull and Blue as me. In front of your strawberry brilliance, I wasn’t even Blue anymore. I was as plain and Gray as gravel-path pebbles.

I think you understood what I was thinking, because you chased all that Gray away with a warm, soft laugh and held out your hand to me. I still remember the way it felt, the first time our fingers touched. It was like holding a promise, a secret, written in the language of roses and wildfires.

And before I could say a word, a little drop of your Red hit me.

It disappeared right away, of course, like a match doused in water. But I could still feel it.

I think I fell in love with you that very same day, That Red splash had already found a home in my lonely Blue heart. My color was changing, even then. Even now. Do you know how much I adored you? How much I still do, even now?

But that day was a long time ago, long before the accident. The accident was Red, too, all over your strawberry hair until the drizzling Blue rain washed it away.

The Black doesn’t match you very well, you know. Neither does that somber, dark, Mahogany box. It feels wrong. Like you’re playing at something.

You should be Red, even after all the Red is gone.

Even after you’re gone.

I thought I’d always be Blue. But one day, after your rosebud lips brushed mine, I looked down and saw. I was Lavender. Soft, cool, misty Lavender.

Raindrops are falling from my dusky eyes, now. Landing on your cold, pale cheeks. Dampening your cold, dry lips. I force myself to smile and brush them away. My Purple heart was aching with a burning fierceness. I don’t know why you chose me, but I loved you--and I don’t really care.

“Red was always my favorite, you know,” I whispered, with trembling voice. “What a lovely shade of Red you are.”