It is the jovial, gentle gradient of your first love Transcending from the kind of blue that swims under a blanket of flesh on the topmost part of her wrist Into an orange so pale it could just be pink; Reminiscent of the peach of her cheeks Dampered by the dreariness of a stormy Sunday noon Light shrouded in the mysticism of "what if's" and "why" It is the turbulence of heartbreak Escaping with the breath you held in too long Sighing a song of failed attempts and discarded hope Dressed in the melancholy of grey-blue, exasperatingly clouding over in surrender; The kind of dark that makes you wonder if it is pathetic fallacy Or maybe just a coincidence that the sky can seem so sad. All at once placid Milky and cold and fresh as the first glass of Bessie's byproducts It is the clarity accompanying self assurance The comfort in the knowledge that blue is just a shade away from blue-grey Cotton ***** on a sheet of glassy water Just enough to get you through midday Until scorching it sets, and your cat nap is marked with a rigid back and stood-up hairs It is a blaze of passionate glory The first crimson drop from the blood orange Only to dilute before you into a tangerine so vivid you have to question if maybe your eyes are just over-dramatizing its hue.
This is incomplete, although I'm not sure if I want to add to it.