In my child-like
eye I say
white.
Black.
No.
White.

Later in childish
shyness I'll
say
blushing
red.

Seconds later,
in a blick,
a moody moment
my teenage
love turns
blue.

Will I love the color
of an old man's
milky white eyes,
smiling black teeth,
red drunken nose,
and blue cold feet?

I'm still too
young
to abstract
a color
for endless sky
or grind
powdered
dye to paint
a color
love.