If I could be a color, perhaps I would choose to be the chapped red of your lips in February, when you stand out in the dark under a streetlight and flakes of snow dance across your skin. That red has never ceased to comfort me, especially when you press those lips against mine in shaky attempts to keep body heat from getting too far away.

If I could be a color, I would settle for the watery blue of your eyes when you regard me not as something you have, but as something you gave up for a better time-- or rather, a person better suited for you. Those sky eyes have always held me closer than any pale arms ever could, and I hope I see my reflection painted blue sometime soon.

If I could be a color, I might choose to be the midnight black of your hair because even though it isn’t natural, it reminds me that all of us have our insecurities and the little things we’d like so much to change about ourselves. I liked how the darkness fell around your face when it was longer and contrasted so sharply with your skin when you were angry. I ran my hands through your hair and was often amazed that my fingers didn’t emerge the same hue as the strands in which they loved so much.

If I could be a color, I think I would like the be the iridescent glimmer of the drops of sweat that gathered on your back every time we fell into our usual rythyms. Space was often limited, usually restricted to all that a small car with fogged-up windows could offer, and your sweat evaporated and twisted around our heads in the hot air we gasped for. Those little beads of sweat always intrigued me; the freedom their hues must accept.

If I could be a color, I would resolve to remain the pale cream of your skin because it has always pushed against me in all the right ways and begged for my hands to smother it comfortable. It has been a smooth and clean chameleon in more ways than one, from ashen bone to tiny brown spots that gather at the base of your neck. It has gone pink on the cherries of your cheeks and crimson where blood has found its way out of your wrists and palms. It has contained every pigment of color that you've ever opted to become.

If I could be a color, I would choose to be the bleak grey of the sky on the morning you left, because maybe if I got used to seeing the color in the mirror, I wouldn’t so often think of its significance when I see it unexpectedly. Maybe I wouldn’t remember quite so often the pores that have been savagely drowned in crying and screaming fits in order to make you come back. Yes, that bleak grey is the hue I think I would be, if I could be a color.