California

Green. That was my favorite color after I met you. Green like your eyes. Green like the grass in that field we laid down on that night you got too high and I got too emotional. In fact, green is only not beautiful to me when I wear it (I only wore it when you were around her). Green like the money I would have spent to be in her shoes for just one day. Green like the bottles we threw at the old factory next to the Williamsburg Bridge that night it was drizzling and my hair was so big you pressed down on it and said it was the world. Green like what, that same night, made my lungs feel too small and you're arms so big. Green like the dirty water in the cracks of my old block's street (yes, green is even beautiful to me dirty) that we'd stare at as we talked for hours. Green like my veins the day you pointed out how fair my skin is in comparison to your golden brown complexion and so you called me your porcelain doll.

And so I thought I was your doll. And that meant I belonged to you in some way. And maybe belonging to you meant only you. And in some way that meant you belonged to me, too.

You always belonged to my heart.

That day came, and it was not green and it hurt. I ran through the rest of that long year. I passed black buildings, gray sidewalks, and even the occasional red sunset, but colors couldn't be the same if I couldn't have green. Faces were lifeless if they weren't your own. Days seemed pointless, all I did was run; pretending to run from you.

I ran as far as California. Now, I'm in California writing about you. I'm laughing to myself in California.

I can't run from you.