If I could paint a picture, this is what it would look like:
It would have bright sky blues with wispy cloudy whites,
and verdant leaf green edging the vision.
It would have the brightest sun-white shining through the window
from the morning after our first conversation.
It would have dark blues and greens and misty, foggy blacks
and a pair of bright shining hands reaching out, penetrating the depths.
It would have vibrant purples and oranges and pinks from the rose garden
that would dance across the page
to the rhythm of wild hearts
that rush to greet each other
and rejoice in a deep longing–a deep ache–rectified.
How do you paint a question? The color of water?
It would have greys and browns of the stones and clay on that beach,
where we walked and explored and grew
and hearts opened, and later opened again.
And greys and browns and blacks
of the interiors of our cars
and the asphalt of so many parking lots
from so many lonely months,
with harsh white lines marking the spots where we sat
so far away, yet so close.
And then it would have the neon orange and purple
of the lights in the rear-view
glowing in the dark night
when we again faced the parking lot
but this time