What Color Is Love?

Love is blue. When I look up the sky, I remember when we went to Ireland and didn’t pack any warm clothes. It was late summer, but it was so freezing cold, I had to buy a jacket. I bought a blue jacket. It was like the sky on a sunny summer day. We walked to the coast and you took a picture of me in my blue jacket standing on a rock, with the sea behind me and the sky above. It was almost too much blue but the happiest blue I could ever imagine.

Love is green. Because green is my favorite color and love is my favorite feeling on Earth. Like the grass we lay on in the Tuileries Garden in Paris, staring at the sky and making dreams. We played airplane and you almost dropped me, and I had to laugh so hard because of the terrified face you made.

Love is sizzling red. Because it’s passionate, and because it can make you bleed. Because of the twenty-seven roses you gave me to our fifth anniversary and because of the same twenty-seven roses you threw in the bin the next day when we had a fight.

Love is purple. Like the lust I feel when I’m around you. My dirty thoughts and my secret fantasies. And the delirium we are in when our naked skin touch. Playful like a kid’s giggle on a carousel. Heavy as the smell of potpourri.

Love is mourning black. Like the circles under my eyes because of all the nights I spent awake waiting for you and you never came. And because sometimes you feel dead inside.

Love is indigo. Like the ink in the fountain pen I used for the notes I left on your pillow in the mornings.

Love is gold. Because of the song you sang me about the little blind girl who asked her daddy what color the wind was. And because it’s precious and doesn’t wear off over time. It’s like winning the first prize. Or the lottery. Feels damn good and you think the whole world is yours.

Love is gray. Like that bench we were sitting on. The waves were playing with the pebbles and the light breeze was carrying the smell of the sea. You laid your head in my lap and I gazed into your eyes. You smiled and I decided that I wanted to see that smile every day for the rest of my life.

Love is amber. The resin that forms on the tree trunk and looks like a tear drop as it’s making its way down. Shiny and beautiful from the distance and it lures you with its smoky and sweet, little musky smell, but when you touch it, it loses its glow, becomes heavy and sticky, and your fingers are trapped. And when you finally manage to scrub it off, all that remains is some tired, dark spots and a faded memory of how you felt when you were admiring it from the distance.

Love is tangerine. Warm and juicy. Sweet. And fluffy like the cotton candy at the fun fair.

Love is turquoise. Like the dress you were wearing the first time I saw you. You walked into the room and stole my heart. It felt like time had stopped just to let me enjoy that moment a little longer.

Love is white. Pure like snow, innocent like a baby’s first chuckle, or the first time your lips touch someone else’s.

Love is tired brown. Heavy like old petroleum. A vast sticky pond you are sitting in and no matter how hard you try to move, you can’t get out. Like a swamp. You sink deeper and deeper until you are trapped. The only way to escape is to rip your limbs off. But sometimes you surrender and let the slough suck you in completely. And then you stop existing.

Love is pinky orange. Like the sunset we watched together at the canyon, our faces covered in reddish dust, tired from the long walk, and grateful for having each other.

Love is deep green. With a yellowish shade in it. Like anger. And jealousy. With dark yellow clots in it. Like the bile you throw up on an empty stomach.

Love is steel. Strong and everlasting. Unbreakable. But sometimes sharp and cold.

Love is terra cotta. Like the bricks in that old building where we found shelter from the storm once. It was chilly and windy, and we moved close to each other to keep warm. I could feel your breath on my neck, and my heart started pounding harder. The rain poured down like a water curtain, you couldn’t see through it and we didn’t make it inside fast enough. We got soaking wet and my silk shirt became transparent and my nipples were poking their way through the thin fabric. You nervously started digging around in your backpack and pulled out a creased, comfy-looking sweater, and held it out to me. It was dry and soft and good-smelling. A shiver ran down my spine and goosebumps covered my body. I put my arms in the air to let you help me out of my soaked shirt. Your eyes became wide open and you froze for a second, then took off my shirt. As I let my arms down, you gasped and it felt like your heart skipped a beat. I stood there in silence and you stared. That was the first time you saw my bare breasts.

Love is green and white. Like the pills I watch you take every day to be okay.

Love is fading ocher. Like lost hope.

Love is mint. Like the paint on the wall in the hospital room they kept you in and which became my second home. Like the chewing gum that always leaves a sweetish taste in your mouth and the shoes I wore for your big night. They were hurting my feet and giving me blisters. As we were walking home, I was in so much pain and blood that I couldn’t make the last half a mile. You threw my shoes in a bin and me over your shoulders and carried me home.

Love is silver. Shiny, but dirty spots appear on it over time and if you aren’t taking care of it, it can turn to black.

Love is canary yellow. Because it makes me want to shout from the rooftop that I’m with you.

Love is like a rainbow. It can show all its colors at once and you get confused. You can see one color a day and another on the next. Or you can make all the colors at once if you want.

In the mood for a story about a pervert instead?

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