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Your blues ain’t like my blues;
cool, visual cobalt,
salty still inlet cove, prone
to frostbite if left untreated.
Your blues might be a bit different,
but I see them,
and somehow, they manage
to make me even bluer.
But then you smile
and beckon to me, and
the rhythm of my ballad
is disrupted as a
single raindrop ripples the
stillest, bluest body into
countless reflected fireflies
that flirt with your eye-twinkles.
As the bluest sky is sketched upon
by threaded white wisps,
west to east,
so do you chase the bluest of me
into the Technicolor of us.
I know of no such existence that doesn’t
have me streaking across the
to pursue whatever blue
that dims your joy.
Take my hand and walk with me
until the sun settles beyond view,
lengthening the shadows of what will be,
reaching up to the ripening-pink heavens
that reflect hints of gold
as the clouds ignite
the way my blues combust into new colors
whenever I’m in earshot of your laughter,
a precious respite from my
blues, indigos and violets.