you remind me of kindergarten colors

you do remind me of kindergarten colors, in one of those brand new 64-pack of crayons. and i wonder which one you’d pick if you wanted to draw the moon on a summer night in late july.

you do remind me of kindergarten colors. pastel crayons grasping for air, as we grip their bodies in a bunched up gist. named for their hues, after oceans and buildings. flowers and films. used to draw pictures and letters, stories and maps. but to draw the moon on a summer night in late july. i would pick the yellows of early goldenrods and fresh lemonade stands. or the taste of honey that lingers on your lips and that scent of sunscreen and sweat that i swallow. as my tongue barely meets the pale freckles on your neck.

i’d calmly craft a slender cut crescent. shaped just like the tip of my fingernails. that i sink my teeth through when worry swells and swirls to flood my chest, the way her name winds endlessly in your head. the sliver of my lemon moon floats through specks of canary gold stars that dance and dive around a midnight blue sky. and my heavy hand scribbles and urgently carves through any surviving untouched fragments, of the stark, white, piece of paper.

and i do wonder what kindergarten color your hands would select. if i asked you to draw the moon on a summer night in late july. i’d hope that you’d choose me, in meadows of early goldenrods and plump lemon tree yellows. but i know you’d prefer her, and the yellows in springtime, when the sun stretches further and the dandelions bloom.