Yellow: The color of your thick, wonderful voice dripping into my ear when you spoke to me as I laid in your lap on that Wednesday evening.

Blue: The color of your old bike that you would ride past my house on, sailing straight through the neighbors sprinklers when they splashed onto the street.

Red: The color of that Sno-Cone you spilled on my lap. You stroked my leg with your napkin. My soul felt on fire.

Pink: The color of your smooth shoulders after that day at the beach. I still hear the sea at times.

Purple: The color of the sky on nights where the only sounds were the brushings of the tall grass and the whisperings of our two voices.

White: The color of the blanket we used to use when we had picnics on Sunday’s. Those stains won’t seem to come out of that thing.

Orange: The color of the warm bonfire that would spatter across your face when we toasted marshmallows as the putrid smoke crept into our lungs slowly, and with a scary silence.

Green: The color of the shirt you wore to that concert. I had never heard of the band, but you had said you liked them. I bought our tickets.

Silver: The color of your small car. I counted the seconds it took for you to pull out of my driveway when you left for the last time. 5 seconds.