when I became the blue

most times I think I've escaped you.



but then

water rushes in

and I remember that night
where we melted into each other

the wind, rain, waves
sounding behind, beneath -- through us

you painted me in every different kind of blue --
all the blues from your drawings

the only moments of color
in your ink of black and white

these were the colors that became me.

but was it you who did the painting,
or me who did the dreaming?

did i paint you painting me?

and were the blues from your drawings
the one splash
you allowed yourself to feel?


the splash dried up--


black and white remains.