She's green; green of the summer breeze and she'll be green till the yellow turns red. Red, the color of her lipstick; the color of her eyes in the morning; the color of the signs around her telling her otherwise.
Blue, that's me, the color of the lonely and the lost which is what I am when she's gone. My hues change in temperature and I parade myself in shades of crimson and gold. But it is folly. One cannot change their color, though she'd have me believe otherwise. And I being blue, always believe her.
She's green! Green! And when I'm with her, I feel it too. Everything that is new and possible fits comfortably into our hands and for a moment we believe there is only us. But they are so loud-the colors. They are many and we are two and their choir drowns out our humble sonata. We clash, us and them, for we were never meant to sing as one. And she begins to think I have betrayed our love though my voice was meant only for her, the green, the emerald green.
She's my emerald queen but she cries obsidian in long strands. Obsidian, the color we have begun to sing. We once harmonized in turquoise but now our tones have grown hoarse and dark. We have grown too far apart, these long tumultuous days. And I being blue, find myself too comfortable in my familiar color. I yearn for her, the green, but winter has blackened her and I am helpless.
Her circumstance is one of dark fate. I do not understand her language. Did I ever truly know it? And I realize that she was never green and that my foolish yearnings for harmony merely painted her the green of my dreams. I see her now. My once green queen has become a black stranger.
And there are hues between us.