I don’t remember―

but I wrote as if I did.

I told you about my bed and my clothes and the silence,
and all about the color blue, and how I don’t have it in my bedroom
or my bathroom or in any of my kitchen towels.

I said it wasn’t my favorite color and that when I describe water it is always a
shade
of green,

because seaweed is green and lily pads are green and some summer storms
express
themselves in greens, and all of this is reflected
in the water.

Even my bath soap is green so that, when I bathe, I swim in a green-hued milky
pool.

Speaking of reflections: sometimes I look into a mirror―a long mirror―and
notice
that my blue jeans cannot be named a variant of green,
so I have convinced myself that there must always be an exception
to every rule and my jeans will be that exception; the only blue
in my universe. . . .

. . . if it weren’t for my eyes which must have been open and innocent―attractive―starring up into his eyes as he did this thing to me. I don’t know, maybe.

His eyes were not blue; this is the only thing I remember.