She is Color

                        Megan Caldwell

​Maybe she’s always been those warm, horsey hues of bay, chestnut, and grey as you take to the trails together; the contrasting oranges and blues of an evening sky as the sun descends behind the blackness of a far tree line. Maybe she’s become the color of a swelling blood moon and faint kisses in between stoplights that never last long enough. The softness of lavender that dances on her walls as you fall asleep with an arm draped over her hips, breathing faint against a tangle of blonde hair. Maybe she’s flushed pink from dancing and grinding, her pale hands gripping your waist. She’s both the flashy green wildness of pulsating music, and the littered, yellow streaks that filter from gaps in window blinds the next afternoon. Maybe she’s all of these things and maybe she’s none. Maybe she is only the color of life you never thought to taste, leaving you daydreaming of ways to drink an artist’s palate.