Holding your hands is yellow. It’s not a dandelion, blazing sun type of yellow–it’s the color of peonies and lemon pith. Soft, casual, habitual, necessary. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to walk without your fingers tangled with mine. The scratch of your calluses is the color of a little duckling’s belly, and the slide of your knuckles against mine is pale and staticky, like a summer storm. Hot enough to almost have sweaty palms, but there’s enough rain that our hands are slip-sliding against each other, and I’m worried I’ll lose my grip.  

Lying next to you feels red, like sunlight through wine colored curtains that stain the whole room. It tastes a little tangy, like fresh sangria or an almost ripe strawberry. It’s intense in a way, but it’s not forceful. We’re both daydreamers and lovers and yearners, and there’s a tension building in the space between us, birthed by the thought of everything we could do in this moment. And if I look into your eyes while we lie here, the red gets a little brighter.

Breathing your air is a smooth sort of brown, like dark chocolate. The intimacy of being known brightens it to a soft burnt orange, like sunset filtered through the blanket over our heads. We’re hiding here like children, and I can see myself in the reflection of your eyes. There’s a perfection there that a mirror could never replicate. This is the closest I will ever get to seeing me the way you do. I’m reminded in this moment that I’m yours. I’m reminded in this moment that you see joy I never imagined myself capable of. We’ve gone far past your fingers on my skin. I’m more interested in the way you caress my mind. I’m trying to build our lives in that kind of intimacy. The copper-tinted trim of being perceived by you is more than enough. 

Singing to you is the same green as pine trees, or maybe a little warmer, like the moss that grows on the forest floor. It might just depend on the song; love songs are bright, spring-y hydrangea leaves. Typical, vibrant, easy. The little weird goofy songs you like are a swampy lake tone. There’s something beautiful and muddy about embarrassing myself to make you smile. I think it’s something about it being so uniquely mine and so specifically gifted to you. 

Praying with you might be my favorite color. It’s a midnight kind of shade, maybe blue, maybe purple, maybe black. When there’s too much light pollution for the stars to stand in their full glory, but one or two have made their escape. We have made our escape. The kind of midnight sky that stands as a backdrop for purple lighting that’s just a little too close to comfort. That’s what it feels like when we pray, when we stand in faith together, like we’re waiting for the lightning to strike with no clue if it’ll hit us.

To love you and be loved by you is a kaleidoscope of moments. Every color shifting, twisting, turning into the next. Something gentle this way comes, something special, something kind. I’ll carve a space for myself inside your ribcage, between your lungs. And when the colors change, when we find ourselves in shades we never imagined, when you stop to breathe them all in, I’ll be right there breathing them in with you.