I begin with mint green,
Funny—I hated mints once.
Now I love them. But just the subtle kind.
Maybe that’s how life works:
the things we resist quietly become the things that shape us.
Then I reach for jade green,
heavy, stubborn,
the color of patience that outlasts hope,
proof that endurance is its own quiet cruelty.
It also carries a trace of memory,
of my brother and me,
watching an episode of Jade Jaguar in Doraemon.
And slowly a green becomes viridian-blue.
It’s neither one nor the other.
I could live here, I think,
in the space between ocean and forest,
in the apology of colors that couldn’t decide either.
I touch lapis lazuli,
royal, impossible,
deep enough to swallow words,
ancient enough to remember the ones you never spoke.
And indigo twilight follows,
purple bleeding into blue,
reminding me
that even the shade of night is not a constant.
Then purple arrives,
dramatic as always.
Amethyst, the color that thinks it invented mystery,
holding shadows like it owns them.
And lavender, shy and soft,
what I think is pretending to be delicate.
Purple, I swear,
you’re a little ridiculous—
and yet, somehow, I keep coming back to you.
Perhaps the problem isn’t the colors at all.
Perhaps it’s me,
always searching for permanence in something that moves,
always hoping the shade I choose
will choose me back.
Maybe that’s what beauty is—
the ache of almost.
The way everything worth loving
keeps changing its hue
just when you thought you started to understand it.
Category: La Poésie