Blue

She looks good in blue.

The blues you leave behind when you leave her, the shape of a belt along her back, a blue reminder of who's who to her.

She looks good in blue, when she's in your shirt, navy or flannel or sky blue, pulled off your back to wrap her in your scent.

She looks good in blue, when you're gone, and she misses you, melancholy honey that drops off her tongue and on to a page, while the ocean drips on to the latest shirt she kept.

Beautiful only when she’s splayed out on the blue sheets you ruin her on, time and time again.

She looks best underneath you, blue no longer.