You Weren't Wearing Blue

You weren’t wearing blue when we said goodbye.

It was raining, or threatening to,

The kind of sky that presses down,

Like guilt, or a name you never wanted.

You turned the corner like a question unanswered.

I let you go like a coward. I had things to prove.

-

You were not wearing blue, not that day.

It might’ve been green. Or gray. Or rust.

Something dull enough to make leaving easier.

The streetlight flickered as you vanished,

Or maybe that was just me blinking too fast.

-

You weren’t in blue when you said my name

For the last time, soft as a bruise.

I tasted blood and didn’t flinch.

Kept your name behind my teeth

Like a thread I couldn’t use.

-

You did not wear blue,

But I see that shade when our song comes on,

That one with slow piano and the breathless break

Right before it crashes. Something in a minor key,

Like a door against the wind.

-

You weren’t wearing blue.

But I’ve rewritten it that way

Because if you were...if you were

Then maybe I didn’t miss it all.

Maybe I noticed something.

-

You were not in blue.

But I remember blue anyway

Because it’s easier to argue with color

Than admit I was the one who faded first.

-

You weren’t wearing blue, but I needed you to be.

Because grief needs a uniform.

Because heartbreak wants a color.

Because if I can blame the fabric,

I don’t have to blame myself.