The first glimpse of my love was out the back window of a car. After that I saw her everywhere: In sweet wrappers and kingfisher wings and wrapped around a full moon. She was blue. Not a woman, a colour. It shouldn’t be so but I could not stop myself, for in loving her I became much more than I was. She lifted me out of the glum constraints of human life on Earth and liberated me. Yes, she was formless in a way and I could not touch her with amorous fingers, but just the merest glimpse sent me into unimaginable places where the deepest dreams, the loftiest sentiments became real. I could tell nobody and who would believe me? I only know that everything love was, every transcendence it promises, I found right there in just the slightest glimpse of a Bic pen or even the very notion of a Mediterranean lagoon. While my friends were copping lusty grabs of pinkish girls in their Vauxhall Chevettes I was gazing at the sky, sending secret whispers to my truelove. Ah but love is fleeting or fickle. Whenever I sung out the contents of my soul, she retreated behind clouds and then I wondered if love was real at all, and never did she entirely disappear from my life; so love came and went, came and went. I was in a perpetual state of she loves me, she loves me not.
In the winter behind the snow-fattened branches of oak trees she turned a shade of turquoise. She seemed younger, more vital and I feared she was crafting a display to attract another lover. Those were painful months when I over-analyzed every facet of our union. Had I taken our love for granted? Had I been casual with the attention I gave her? Were we ever really in love or were we just lonely strangers caught in an exclusive mood of silent depth?
But spring came. It came slow and bright and she wrapped herself in glimmering true blue veils. Still we were coy. I never knew if I was to declare my love or whether such boldness would clumsily snuff out the magic , that the stating-the-obvious nature of my sentiments would be gauche or whether it would scare her off and she’d present herself pallid and freckled with fragments of cloud cover.
In May I had all but given up on my fellow man. His petty addictions and loathsome superficiality had turned me quite dumb. I spent the evenings in the meadows, watching out for early blooms of wild cornflower where my sweetheart hid herself. She reigned in earth and sky and even in the reflection of my eyes in the mirror where I saw her looking back at me with her three shades, each somehow conveying some different expression of her glory.
Ours was a love that needed no words. Ours was a love that needed no time. One pulsated its truth and the other listened, and one shrunk inwards and the other stepped back. As such we were hand in hand in the slowest dance across space and event, and yet we were beyond activity, beyond discreet personal experience. We were blue, just blue, and nothing more had I ever wanted.