red, they say, is the color of love,
a hue that hums with quiet passion
of meet-cutes through a mutual friend
or coworkers who deny the obvious spark.

i color love with the flowers outside my front door;
a garden never blooms in red alone
and we’d be damned to ignore the vividity
of blues, greens, yellows, and whites.

for instance, why not see love as the blue
of that first night we met — awkward laughter,
sushi rolls left half-eaten among friends,
twilight leaning closer with every word,
the sky darkening, yet endless?

i remember the first day i called love green,
when your emerald eyes met mine
with a steadiness i hadn’t known;
the gaze that told me, for the first time,
“you’re okay. i’ve got you.”

yellow was the sundress you wore —
the radiance of your smile, startling as the dawn,
the moment i wondered if i came only for friendship,
for idle chatter, or for 3am texts
that betrayed the idea of “best friends.”

and sure, red has crossed my mind,
the vibrant hue of your lips first pressed to mine,
the color of the flush in my cheeks betraying me as i wondered
if i’d thrown away the first good thing i dared to hold
for the sake of my own desires.

grey, too, had its place —
the silence after squabbles, the fog
that lingered until your hand found mine again;
grey, the resilient shade of what i hadn’t yet lost
even when my own light felt distant.

your breath, warm against my chest
makes even this weary world bearable;
a goofy smile curling in your sleep
as you shift beneath the blankets,
something color can’t quite describe.

and those nights on park benches —
laughter sweetened past its measure,
compliments heavier in their meaning,
two people pretending not to notice
what every color already knew.

so don’t blame me too much
if the white of your wedding dress
contradicts red as the color of love —
i’ve learned to love you as i love a garden,
a mosaic of hues stumbled upon and cherished,
a desire that outlasts the seasons.