Blue as the tranquil water of the lakes,

or of the unseen breeze, or flying kites.

Or of ink pens that stain our hands and

smear all over the white of the table

beneath our weight.


Blue as the rising tide, the falling rain,

the last crayon in the box that day.

Blue as the uniforms we grew up in,

and the highlights in your hair in

our high-school years.


Blue as the skies, the stars, the moon,

and the frozen lips of lost heroes in the abyss.

Blue like the ice cubes you held in your hand,

while you talked about the constellations above our heads.

Did you forget?


Blue, as fingers trace over

an old, torn photograph

from a time when we both smiled

at each other and the world.



Blue is a time forgotten, because you—

sorry, my bad. I misread.

Perhaps I wasn’t irreplaceable.


Blue is drowning

under change and

breakable bonds.



By Yvette Chan

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