I remember you in hues.
Because meeting you was like opening a crayon box—
The kind with too many colors—
So many that it wouldn’t be possible to use them all.
You had so many vibrancies,
So many varieties and colors and parts that
I immediately wanted to start the picture of us.

I remember you in intensities.
I drew you with memories,
Littered the page with the glitter of laughter.
But sometimes a crayon broke under the pressure of our heavy hands.
Occasionally I grabbed a gray in place of a yellow,
Inadvertently drew a storm cloud instead of the sun.
And even when I stowed the accidental gray away,
The crayon peeked out of the box, still visible in the display,
Right alongside the brilliant fuchsias and robin’s egg blues.

I remember you in shades.
Not the perfection, but the imperfection
Those moments when we got caught up and colored too fast,
When orange flowed into red
And imperial purples speckled emerald grasses.

I remember you in highlights.
The picture only reveals half of your colors,
Unfinished, the page longs to know every waxed pigment of you,
Every highlight,
Every shade,
Every intensity,
Every hue.
So I start again.
I remember you in color.