I have paint on my hands the color of you

by Elizabeth Moore

I wore purple shoes on our second date,

the day I fell for you

at the putt putt pop-up in Battery Park.

You: swinging a mini-golf club behind your back

and making me laugh, 

that whiskey cocktail in your purple Hydro Flask.

I thought: you could be so special to me.

Your favorite color is purple

and I loved that about you.

I wrote about it in the poem I scribbled 

on the subway in December

and mailed to your house for Christmas.

I poured my whole heart into that poem.

I loved you with my entire body and soul in that poem.

I think you read it once,

said thank you, 

didn’t mention it again.

I wanted to be so special to you.

You loved purple for its layers,

for its unpredictable blend of crimson and blue,

for its synthesis of disparate colors,

the ability to be everything at once.

You liked that purple was a color people didn’t expect.

You wanted to be a person people didn’t expect.

You were so special to me. 

All of you.

Every color. 

Every shade.

From the blue you wore on your marathon

to the red you wore on Halloween,

when I was so happy I thought I might explode,

when I was so happy I ignored

just how drunk you were at the wine bar,

how loud and condescending,

how I dismissed this and decided not to care,

decided you could have unlimited chances,

decided you were better than one drunken Halloween night.

I couldn’t see it then,

but I see it now: 

how when you blend too many colors, 

the canvas gets murky;

how when you date three women in one year

it doesn’t end well;

how patterns become guarantees.

Now I see you managing your exes at parties

and I pity you,

saying hello as if nothing has happened,

as if we haven’t all gotten mixed up with purple

as if we haven’t all gotten muddy and gray in the process. 

I have paint on my hands the color of you,

the color of trying to be everything at once.

I try to wipe it off

but you have stained my skin and my shoes and my story—

a lasting layer

in the landscape of my life.