If Blue Weren’t a Color

It would be the last note falling to the floor

from a tired violin in some stone walled pub

with beer stained sleeves and conversations colliding.

It would be a kiss that wanted one more press against the pair of lips

life will surely become a frozen river without.

It would be the feeling that fills the forest when a cool breeze holds

hands with a ray of sun and the leaves catch a ride on their shoulders

as the horizon tells the moon its time for her shift.

It would be how I felt each time you smiled at me and each time I

said goodbye all at once.

If blue weren’t a color, it would be my heart lying alone in my bed,

waiting for me to come back home with you.