The shirt you’re wearing as I sit next to you in one of the few pictures we have together that I kept. We’re smiling as though there is nothing to fear, and if there is, then we know we will be there for each other to stave off from such a feeling. I never saw you wear that shirt again. The shade of my ceiling when I wake up in the middle of the night, stirring from a sad dream. The color of the bow I wore in my hair a couple of times at school. The way you felt when you couldn’t remember the words to one of our favorite songs. The way I felt when you couldn’t remember the words, because I could tell it was the beginning of you forgetting me. The small waves gently milling about in the pond in the park we’d walk through every week together. A bright feather on one of the birds you tried to feed bread crumbs to during a walk in said park. Her eyes, a piercing hue that demanded your attention like a performer at a circus. The blanket that preserved our warmth during brisk mornings waking up beside each other. The mug you drank simmering tea from soon after getting out of bed. The ink from the pen I used to write you letters. The box you put the letters in underneath your bed, obscured by shadows and necessary secrecy. Your gemstone, because in dire need of amusement, I looked it up once. The sky just before it becomes truly nightfall.
The color you shirked off in favor of a “real” blue.