Blue

for S.G. 

It is almost night

the sky is your favourite shade of blue

the dim tinted blue you feed your silent white canvases,

the dumb rectangles you give lips to.

I hold your paint brushes to my heart and weep,

anything you have touched.

I’ve done all the necessary clichés;

read your old messages and kissed them
dreamt of you on long train journeys, and
in foolish childish haste mistook every man as you                                      

                                                                       every man is you

                                                                                  every man is you.