NaPM 2 April 2022

[Quixilated]

Yellow.
Your new CD player on the desk,
the brand new bedspread,
there was something else,
but I don’t remember now.
And your hair like a waterfall
of gold down to your waist.

Green.
The grass on the front lawn
where we studied in September sun.
The floor-length peasant skirt;
you wore it everywhere 
that first semester. I never told you
how it transformed you into Tatiana.

Blue.
That tower of shimmery shadows
you carefully applied every morning.
Your eyes looked beautiful either way,
though, laughter became them best.
The pond-deep puddle in the parking lot
the day we danced together in the rain.

Red.
I can’t think of any.
Red is too loud for this.

Orange. 
The goldfish we thought we could take on an airplane in plastic containers when we went to your house for spring break, but they died a few days later.  I can’t remember, but I think we felt very guilty. 

Brown.
Hot chocolate and secrets shared at midnight.
Matching sweaters and the smell of your perfume.
Our own quotes and fairy pictures on the wall.
A glitter-spell cast from a Japanese walking stick
in the dead of night to help with homework
and homesickness. 

Black and White.
Words on paper and screens.  Novels.
Birthday letters, miss you letters, just because.
Journals, stories, poems, dreams.
Traveling long distances in a handful of words.
A friendship made from thousands upon thousands of words,
two nerdy souls, and a handful of pixie dust.