Smiling softly at you,
Because you make me happy,
Laughing with you in the limber afternoon,
My deep dimples,
Enough to make you tumble and tumble again,
You grab my hand, grazing my ring,
And lead me through the flowers,
Our touch as meshed as cotton in my hair,
You’re whistling through the weeds,
A thousand thorns,
Spill off my shoulder,
Scoop the ground,
We walk and dandelions surround us
Naturally

red



The first color in art.

The beginning of a rainbow;

the color pushed out of your heart.



The color of a husky voice and bare legs.

It fills the mind, washing away doubts

and slowly drips onto innocence like tears on the floor.

It is sweat off an old man's brow; it is calloused hands.



It is the taste of your addicting lips.

It is Maria Brink's voice; it is the way 'fruchtfleisch' sounds.
Red is bold, but soft. It speeds up heartbeats.

Red is the beginning of us.

But red is also seeping out a hollow chest.



orange



A difficult color to understand.

One that means organized in the most chaotic manner.

It is dogs barking and it is the sharp and rocky sand.



Orange is your fingers after staying in the water too long.

Orange is the feeling of relief when you've finished all your work.

It is the drunk man's slurred words,

and it is the toxic smell that exudes out of him.



It is a fresh washed blanket, or a pillow without a cover.

Orange is Gymnopédies, No. 1, Lent et douloureux

or Études, Op. 10: No. 12 in C Minor.
It is a storm washing away the chalk on your driveway.

Orange is watered-down coffee on a Saturday afternoon.

Orange is the start to something more.



yellow



Yellow is a tentative smile and long hair.

It is the sky at 3 in the morning.

It is a hot day in summer, biting into a pear.



Yellow is a young girl wishing on a shooting star.

It is a soft voice, but meaningful words.

Yellow are too-big shoes; it is stepping into a puddle of mud.

Yellow is not knowing where the other sock to the pair is.



Painting thick paint over a canvas,

and listening to the song Paris by 1975.

Yellow is a run-down house by the edge of a forest.

Yellow is alluring, yet revolting. 

Yellow is banana splits and ripe strawberries.



green



Green is communication, or the middle grounds.

It is a peaceful lake near a volcano.

Green is being alive, and is the way fire sounds.



Green is the smell of an old book; it is a book that takes too long to read.

It is the smell of nail polish remover.

Green is red solo cups and red stains over furniture.

It is the warm air before a storm.



Green is singing the note C while someone is singing G.

It is the tingle you feel after putting on mint chapstick.

It is feeling like your melting into someone's arms.

Green brings life, but it is the most deadly thing out there.



blue



Blue is the match burning out too sickly and burning you.

Blue is a cigarette and the ashes of an unsent love letter.

It is your side of the bed being cold; it is having the flu.



Blue are arms pulling me in deeper.

Blue is the smell of candles; it is watering your houseplants.

It is a soft cat's tail rubbing against your face.

It is the giggles and the claws dug into your skin after it gets scared.



Blue is Empty Bed by Cavetown playing on repeat. 

It is running your hand down hair and connecting the constellations on your back.

Blue is two girls sleeping over, but instead of sleeping they're whispering.

Blue is driving your car too fast; you feel free.

Blue is accepting it's okay to be alone. Blue is ****** knuckles.



purple



Purple is home.

Purple is the sound of a crowded street

Or the feeling of the ocean on your feet; the foam.



Purple is the sound your pencil makes on paper

It is the feeling of taking the first bite of a warm cookie.

Purple is the smell of roses; you are purple.

My purple is Hey Jude by the Beatles.



Purple is looking in a mirror; it is open drawers.

Purple is your feet brushing up against mine under the table.

It is your favorite song playing until you can't stand it.

Purple is the last color in a rainbow.

But purple is anything but the end.

Purple is the start to a brand new beginning.

Because I remember things, like people,
And skateboards aren't just skateboards,
they're my best friend and the memory of her pushing me around the kitchen in her longboard.

Pool and my eightball keychain are much the same, another friend's name attached to it like his lips to a drink, because god he could drink.

My uncle's the surfers catching their first waves and my older brother is all fighter jets and firemen.

Meanwhile, my mama's all roses and red bandanas, and the poetry I try to birth every night. And I only thought about colors when referring to her and I, red and blue mixing into a perfect lilac sky, but then my ex became green. Green like the olive sthetoscope they wanted and green like the song that hopes they're happy. But green, like the various shades coloring my house, doesn't phase me anymore.

Instead, life's a bit more yellow. Yellow, like the sunflowers I'd get Dali or the chicks my goddaughter would chase after on the yard. No. Yellow like the nailpolish you ruined and yellow like the sun that rises on the east.

Yellow, like fire or passion when you play, and yellow like the colors burning up the heavens at the end of the day.


Yellow, unbeknownst, laced into that first hello.

An untouched forest
Oh so grand
Hints of dirt fragranced by rain
Full of crystal blue rivers that relaxes anyone that gets near to see them flow
Golden specks of morning flowers scattered within the vibrant green forest.
Combined they create the depth of your eyes that I find myself lost in so often.