Blue & Constant.

It was another Friday and a little close to ten. I am sitting with you, shoulders pressed: my pink jersey against your blue cotton. It was a comforting blue. But it wasn’t blue at all. it was crisp white with tiny blue threads weaving in between. It stood against the flushed cheeks of tired skin. Fingers tracing the outlines of our long day. We talk about school, about life, about dreams, about and about. Never quite about what this is.

All this while I’m thinking about resting my tired head on that blue cotton shoulder. It wouldn’t seem out of place.

More domestic, less romantic. More silence, less noise. Is this what this is?