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He Said Blue

I.

He said blue but it wasn't rivers he dove into or a molten sky he detected. Valentines flew from the roses and meant nothing. Derailed sentiments, inedible blossoms. These days, he said, blue is a smudge of faults and blows, a meridian wave stretched out, its breaking point bristling at its very color. Maybe it's simpler to prefer comedy to seduction, love portions of a body, the hairline cracks of resemblance in a stranger's voice or the way grammar turns appetite from past-perfect to present-tense by its inflection. The flaw of premonition rests in how easily it can be folded to resemble a bird. He said blue and all the while I wanted the pure lust of a red rose.

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