Blue.
Class 10.
Biology.
Chapter 18.
Heart and Circulatory System.
Last second bench.

School’s a blur to me.
But sometimes memories come to me
like sea weeds with tides on a full moon night.
It is too overwhelming but in almost an instant
it goes back like ebbs.

This particular memory stayed.
Unwanted.
Unimportant.
Like scars of a lost battle.
Like answer to a rhetorical question.

Arteries and Veins.
Arteries are red.
Veins are blue.
Red is pure.
Blue is not.

Class 10.
4 PM.
Biology Class.
Last second bench.

She had blue eyes.
It always reminded me of the smell of salty air,
under the skies and above the ocean.

As my hand touched her unintentionally (intentionally)
she’d look right back at me.
And I swear I was least interested in touching her
or smelling her or feeling her.
You see, I was still unadulterated.
The rust of the world hadn’t quite touched me yet.
All I ever wanted was her to look at me.
And I would stare.

In awe.
In amusement.
In happiness.
In melancholy.
In surprise.

In the past.

I guess I just wanted to take it all in while I could.
I just wanted to look a little bit longer to figure of what they wanted to say
and what shade of blue that was.

Sky. Navy. Indigo. Cobalt. Ocean. Azure.
Cerulean. Lapis. Sapphire. Arctic. Teal.

There was too much to say and too many colours to choose from.
And I was late.

Wait, is it a full moon night today?
The memories are flooding in again.
*gulp* We used to send letters to each other.
She used a fountain pen. Blue.
Blots of ink spread on paper
like the things that never got out of her.
There were ink stains on the side of palm
when I met her for the last time,
20 hours after the last letter.
2 words.
“Good Bye”

Arteries and Veins.
Red is pure.
Blue is not.

When I look at the veins on my wrist;
From between the scars left by kisses of a blade,
They are still blue.
I smile.
Not quite the colour.

I swear if I ever come across morpheus,
I will grab that blue pill.
Look at it closely.
Pick a happy memory.
Compare it with her eyes.
I am pretty sure,
Not quite the colour.

Stare at the skies.
8 AM.
11 AM.
3 PM.
5 PM.
9 PM.
11 PM.
Not quite the colour.

I will visit every ocean.
River. Lake. Place.
All that ever has been called blue.

Where will I start?

Zihuatanejo.
I heard of it in a movie.
As blue as it gets.
“Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things,
And no good thing ever dies.”
Same movie.

I travel now.
Click photographs for a living.
I am searching for that shade of blue.
On streets.
Doors.
Walls.
People.
Post boxes.
Letters.

Hoping that one day I will find that shade.
And stare it.
Till all my red is blue.

Arteries and Veins.
Both blue.
Red was pain,
Blue is not.

 

 

 

Featured Image is painted by this talented artist @nosugainmycoffee
To see more of her work, follow the hashtag #blueinmyframe on Instagram