I am unsure if you have noticed, but in the cumulative three weeks you have hidden in Montreal, it has not rained. Snow has buried. Sun has bloomed. But even among the heaviest clouds that mute the world in gray, all that was held was the promise of spring, of a slow walk, of us sitting inside most of the time commenting on a fantastical world with fantastical words.
In Vancouver, the reverse spills. Rain births more rain. A blue meets a blue to meat the blue. To weight it. To fulfill it. To give it being being too much somedays. You will be wet with it, full, ravaged by the blue. You’ll wear it totally, have it seep in between you during sex, watch it slip out during a discussion about nothing for nothing. Blue will be in your food. Blue will be in your green eyes. Blue will be you.
But even in this whole swallow, and the reference to Bluets, you will not know what it means to be blue. Even in this wash, you will remain dirty.
I say this, Dear, because there were yellowed days when you wanted to dye your hair blue. You wanted to see something different, which was ultimately seeing a different you wanted. Even if it was only a tip. Especially so.
Now, your hair has died by itself, the brown has invaded, night rests on the horizon thin as a smile. Your eyebrows follow the empty feeling. Hair on your heart lead the way years ago. And it will continue to do so, despite you not wanting it to. Where does that leave you, Dear? What does that leave you, Dearly?
In Vancouver, I am not sure. Not because I can’t guess, but because you can’t. I do not believe you have ever fully asked yourself what you want. Worse, I do not believe I have ever asked you.
This is my fault, keeping your work and world in my microcosm. I have tried to include you in aspects of me, which make you less you for you. You went to San Francisco; I told you I was coming. You wished for blue hair; I went for red.
Where the rain is less of a thing and more of an existence, where the waters ask to dance if you can hear their music on the sidewalk, I need us to reach out for that blue. To find the essence of it. To describe a colour in the way a shower makes a morning or a sea is the parent of summer. I need us to lose the tiredness, to be the tiredness, to win it over once more in a hard, panting exhaustion. I need us to need again.
What? More than us. More than fantasy. More than the rain and the sun and that that has been. Something that lasts. A colour, for example.
Love you colourlessly,
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