Blue

There must be something special
In this color.
The sky never gets bored of it,
And oceans flaunt it often, too.
The moon always tries hard
To touch a deeper shade,
And there is always a faint trace
Of it in every star.
You just have to look long enough.

Kings swear by it.
By people, it is generally accepted as ‘cool’.
For it is also trapped in ice –
Almost invisible, but still present –
More of a feeling than a color.

I suddenly feel wrapped in it
And contrary to popular opinion,
It’s not a case of nerves or depression.
It’s a happy kind of drenching,
When my eyes seek it out
From scattered hues in my surroundings,
And I know I must be crazy
To see my world through a water bottle.

But, unlike other random moods
That I never have explanations for,
This one is warmly justifiable.
It’s the color of the happy ink
That wrote your sad story.
The color of the chocolate wrapper
That lies folded in my drawers.
The color of idle smoke rings,
That curl into what I want to see.

And I am not confused
By this sudden ‘coloredness’
Because I know.

It is a compensation for all the times
I failed to see the blue in your eyes.