What does blue taste like?
Is it close to the salty water of the seas and the oceans?
Or the cradles of the the clouds in the sky?
I wish it tasted like how my tears do,
As they flow down my eyes
Travel through my cheeks and reach my mouth;
They are half parts salty and half parts sour,
With sprinkles of bitter scattered on top.
There is flickering moonlight that seeps into my room,
And fills it with a tingling sensation of ache and hurt.
As it creeps under my bed, I turn blue-
With the thought of things that never seem to leave the warmth of the blanket.
Why is blue a colour intermediate to the highs and lows of my moods on a rainy afternoon?
It’s a wave that touches your feet,
Washes you off of your past sins,
Cleanses your soul, and breaths into you a new life.
Am I too hard to be understood?
Or too difficult to love?
I grow sullen as these thoughts cross my mind
And my heart mourns quietly.
To you, I am just a passing breeze,
A flowing current, a fleeting moment.
If only you’d known, that you were the lifetime I dreamt of,
A timeless constant, a permanent climate.
Perhaps life, is all about uncontrollable changes.
Woe wears a cloak that is coloured in blue,
It reeks of melancholy and sorrow.
There is a deliquescent piece of flesh-
That lies right in the midst of my chest.
It thrusts hard and loud,
And makes vessels beat,
Until one day, it falls tired,
And melts away into a sleep that it would never wake from.
The curtains in my room have forget-me-nots painted on them.
They smell of dust and debris,
Vaguely familiar to the flame of a candle-
The part that’s blue is what I am no more afraid to touch.
There is a garden of my dreams,
That houses countless hydrangeas.
From among the whites, the blue ones glare.
If the sky were to merge with them,
I could never tell them apart.
Correct me if blueberries aren’t a delicacy,
Or blue jays that flutter across the country sides aren’t a treat to watch
Or morpho isn’t the most beautiful creature.
Blue isn’t only a colour,
It’s a delicious feeling,
A distressed thought,
A sorrowful existence
Yet the crux of our life.
Infinite boulevard 