her favorite color is blue
her hair is blonde.
her lips are blue.
so are her fingers.
her nails are silver.
her heart is cold.
it’s winter here.
below freezing at this point.
blue.
the snow is a blue-white,
its untouchable.
cold, to the point where it hurts
she is blue.
she is dead.
blue
blue
blue
blue.
she was pale.
like a ghost.
maybe she was one.
pale.
blue.
she was smiling at me.
her lips were blue.
dark
blue.
her silver fingers
tapped along the
desk.
she had a blue pen.
uncapped, poised to write.
blue ink flowed out;
the pen broke,
ink spilling on her hands.
she didn't mind.
she told me she liked
blue.
she is dead.
she didn’t clean it up.
blue everywhere.
i went over to help her
she didn't know me.
she smiled, her lips blue.
dark
blue.
i smiled back.
i handed her a towel;
she cleaned.
the teacher wasn’t looking.
her hair was long,
cascading.
the ends of it,
blue.
her silver nails touch my
hands in thanks.
i went back to
my seat.
my friend looked at me.
i looked back.
he looked at the blue girl,
towel still in her hands.
he raised an eyebrow at me;
i shake my head.
blue girl stares at her pen,
broken in half,
the insides spilling out,
slowly then all of it gone,
wiped away like
it
wasn’t
there in the first place.
blue still on her mind.
we kissed.
it was after school.
i was standing outside,
and she came up to me.
to say thank you.
for helping her.
she was pretty.
her hair was pretty.
she was pretty.
she smiled,
i smiled back,
she stepped closer,
her blue dress blowing in the
wind.
it was spring
she was
alive.
and breathing.
blue.
i saw lots of blue.
her lips were blue.
dark blue,
and touched mine.
blue on pink,
silver on clear.
she pulled away
first.
smiled at me.
walked away.
blue lipstick on my lips
still.
i liked her.
her blue lips and
silver fingers.
they were part of her.
she was pretty.
my friend slapped me on the back
for getting
a kiss from her.
like it was a competition.
but it wasn’t.
he wouldn’t have been able to
handle her anyways.
she’s her own person,
an enigma of her own.
a didn’t understand
her myself.
she was beautiful.
she was alive.
i didn’t see her again
until the weekend.
she was covered in blue paint
in the paint store.
i needed to repaint
my room.
she offered to help.
she’s in my house,
in my room,
we’re alone
together.
i wonder if
she’ll
kiss me again.
she did kiss me.
when i touched her silver fingers,
she looked at me
and kissed me
again.
i didn’t pull away.
she pressed me
against my
wall,
blue paint on my
back,
on her hands,
in my hair.
i looked at her,
she looked at me.
we kissed again.
her hands on my shoulders,
she was a pretty
blue girl,
in my room.
she was warm.
she liked my name.
i liked hers.
i liked her.
a lot.
it was summer.
she was still
alive,
even prettier.
her hair was still blonde,
still silver.
she got a tan.
she knows me.
i know her.
i love her.
she doesn’t know.
i met her mom,
she’s also blue.
she met my family,
she loves them.
its fall,
her tan is gone,
back to
blue,
dark blue.
she said she loves me
i say i love her,
it’s winter and she is
dead.
i visit her grave,
buy her while flowers and
paint them
blue-dark-blue so
she’ll like
them.
i tell her i love
her,
that I’ll see
her soon.
i buy pink and
white flowers,
paint the white
blue.
pink for me,
blue for her.
she is dead, but
she is still
alive.
and blue.