Blue in Amsterdam

Green windows in sight, a brown plaid seated next to me.

Red ache around the corner, pink hope in the air.

A fierce yellow echoing a mellow otherwise unknown.

Black sinking into my stomach, pockets of purple invading my mind.

It’s blue in Amsterdam.

What might’ve happened, this time?

Would we have gone skating together? Would I have told you about my past? Would I have felt the back of your head cradled between my fingertips, as I gently lulled you off to sleep? Would I have made friends with the soft patches that framed the parting of your hair? Would we have gotten close, my yellow meeting your brown, somehow turning into an orange? Would we have listened to music together, discovering each other’s favorites along the five? Would you have embraced the pink, letting it swirl above and all around us? Would you have kissed me with clarity, and acted with intention? Would I have met your father, and learned about your passion for racing? Would I have let you see me for me, feeling the fear and showing up anyway? Would you have comforted me in tough times, bringing lightness through laughter and rhyme? Would we have become a team, bearing the brunt of each other’s burdens? Would you have looked at me and smiled, thinking, “Man, I think I’ll stick around for a while.”

Would you have liked me more, if it weren’t for scarlet in Schenectady?

If it weren’t for blue in Amsterdam, would I have been enough?

No, you didn’t do anything at all. It sounds ridiculous, I know. It wouldn’t be fair to you, you say.

And I believe you. I have no reason not to, anymore.

But if it was me, it would be easier.

At least then I could grapple with the things I could change. At least then, I could still rearrange.

No, I remind myself. Mom may have drew barbed-wire parameters for her love, keeping me tangled in the clutches of her cables — but you deserve it, Manders, just as you are.

Perspective given, perspective gone, I move through the pain purposefully by song. One road bleeding into the next, tears roll down my cheek with each melancholy remembrance of text.

It was just coffee. It was only one dinner.

It sounds ridiculous. It was nothing you did, you say.

But still, I wish you could’ve stayed.

Red aching in my familiar dark, I feel the embers of our lingering spark.

Pink coming down, tears permeate this town.

Blue in Amsterdam, yellow at home. Oh, the courage I have just shown.

Orange just beyond my grasp, I carry on with formidable rasp.

Blue in Amsterdam, blue at home.

I wish I knew what we could’ve become.