When she was red, she flowed like a blood-stained river.
She was flushed cheeks when one catches the eye of a stranger.
Some nights, she was a long red dress and slender high heels;
a single cigarette clutched between fingers that bore traces of a bloody nose.
On Tuesday evenings, she was a white rose petal gently painted with a brush of regret;
The thorn she had forgotten to trim that quickly broke through skin.
When she was orange, she burned brighter than the sun.
She was the vacant shoulder that housed the tears of another;
A warm pat of affirmation to assure they weren’t alone.
Her soul was the beach at 4am and the sunrise that pushed over the horizon some time after.
She was heavy rain and late night talks in the gazebo;
Warm tears that mimicked the lull of the ocean during morning jogs.
She was love, pure and unrequited love that leaves one chasing the ceiling fan.
When she was yellow, she was the sun at mid-day;
A dandelion swaying softly in the breeze, the picture of love and happiness.
She was the presence of friendly encounters.
On Sunday nights, she was a half-smoked cigarette left to burn out, picked up by a boy who finished her off, making sure to put her back where he found her, though there was less of her these days.
She sought comfort in the colors Van Gogh embodied for a brush-stroked sunflower;
The yellow paint ingested in a last-ditch effort to have happiness within him.
When she was green, she was drenched with envy.
She was tall grass rolling in the wind; picnics at dawn and cackling laughter.
Misplaced feelings with a hint of jealousy, fingers tightly clutching the twenty-five cent ring he bought her on their first date, staining her fingers emerald but she loved it anyway.
When she was blue, she was invisible.
She was a paintbrush resting in cloudy water; an ink pen used so roughly that the glistening ink covered her hands and chin.
A writer who painted the sky with words because she wanted to feel blues that weren’t the sad kind.
The winter, the cold; Fingers pale and icy to the touch wrapped around her favorite mug
A sweater found on their fourth date that she only wears when she misses Spring.
When she was purple, she was dark… but not dark enough.
The hallway; walking with an imaginative head down, thinking of the way the cookie crumbles and wondering how many tiles had never been stepped on.
Contentment in the form of chipped nail-polish and anxious encounters.
When the pain of reds and the chaos of blues collided, she was sullen, oh so sullen.
She was innovation; paint made from glue and dollar store food coloring, dripping down the picture slower than her mood dropped at dawn.
Betrayal in the form of abandonment, too many “I’m sorry’s” and not enough “Let’s do it again sometime’s.” At peace in the calm of the purple, dark but not dark enough.
When she was a rainbow, she loved like a paint splatter; messily and all at once.