Closest Friend

Blue expanding outwards. Peering up and falling in, fingernails lacing the horizon in in airy breaths. I cannot hold forever, but I can stare at Blue. Blue skies, blue ocean, blue mirror. No end, no counterpart. No lines drawn. no creasing corners. Full of the enormity of itself; without apology or exception.

Here I find home. Admiration. That which my body aches to become, rejoin the once conjoined. Pull me upwards to breathlessness, pull me to the down towards depths of the same. Anyway when my lungs give out I’ll probably orgasm. I’ll explode against forever in shifting vibrancy till I become my longing.

Blue doesn’t ask for a name. We force fed it one just so we could talk about it. Beauty must be captured, strung along the pillar of a woman’s neck, so we give you Name. Writhe around it with consonants and vowels till the sound fits ( then falls short. The name is not the description- only its captor.) We distill and cover our walls in its essence hoping to touch.

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They send people up there. They go straight through, somehow not perforating the seamlessness with the penetrating missile. The  Blue swallows and spits out metallic shells which burn up upon impact, leaving tears staining faces for years. But touch? No. We never touch Blue, only coat ourselves in the closest thing. Silks, satins, polyester.

Blue makes an angel out my ugliness. Lopsided face, crooked smile- hoping for lightness only finding grace through Blue. Blue , my steadfast companion- never comparing my pores against porcelain. Organic; we both are. Prone to an eventual ending but for now- mutual watching. eyes, unblinking. When the night comes or clouds dominate I find Blue in my shadows, beneath the curving mists. Blue in my cup, my eyes, the carpet the velvet couch. Blue in the lamp. Blue tounge. Blue lips. Blue rushing in roots and rivers just beneath my skin. Blue cars, blue shoes, blue nails. Patterns Waving to me from the margins. Blue, my guiding line.