Sing the Blues
What does it mean to be blue in the world?
What is the sound of blue? Blue like a donut, empty in the middle. Blue like a sticky note, scribbled with words long forgotten in context. Blue like an old sweater, cozy and warm. Blue like a calendar, lines of blank days waiting to be filled in. Blue reflected in my eyes, a quick glance and then looking away for fear of seeing all my worst demons glaring through the mirror.
When my heart turns blue and the sound of the clock ticking is like a hatchet hitting a tree trunk, chop chop chop, I wrap my arms around myself, I close my eyes, I swallow my tears. When my heart turns blue, turns from ruby to sapphire, pulsing with a light both cold and hopeful, I turn the lights down, I turn the sound of the ocean up, I look out at the moon and whisper its name. When my heart turns blue and night turns to morning, the stars still singing in the sky, the sun still sleeping, I dance around my head, all the space I could wish for, and think of writing oceanic words.
How blue does blue get? Blue as a kiss, blue as a dream, blue as a spark on the tip of a matchstick. How far down does blue go? Blue as old fruit fallen from an ancient tree, deep deep down in the underworld, on the shores of a blue blue ocean beneath a sky of cerulean stone. How far does blue go? Touching and tasting the ends of the cosmos, far far far from our little blue dot, one tiny sphere of stone and sea. How grand does blue get? Even when the chill, skeletal hands of loneliness bewitch my shivering skin, there is a blue light held in my hands and under my tongue and between my ears, waiting for a burst of sighs to set it free.
In a sparse white room, stuffed full of silence, there is blue singing songs of mad, grinning dreams and laughter that echoes across threadbare carpet. There are blue notes tacked to the pale walls with sigils to drive away dusty ghosts. There is my heart, turned from red to blue, jewelled forever, prismatic and brilliant, deep deep down in the cavern of my chest.