Perfect Blue

Hartley

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Ephra,

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There's this song I keep hearing that reminds me of you. perfect blue, it's called. Blue like the sky when I look at it, blue like the ocean so far away. I’m unsure what to say now, I can’t really spend an entire day traveling down to the base of the mountain to tell you a song reminds me of you. What else is appropriate to send on a day like this? It's cloudy and I cannot see you, perfect blue. I went out to hunt, got nothing good. Too much ice and the like around and it's not like you.  My perfect blue—your perfect blue isn’t half as cool. Take that as you will.

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I can’t quite recall the last time I felt you near me. The trip from mine to yours and vice versa is really so long and as I walk the paths, I feel the haunting that is my existence tenfold. In the nooks of trees I see myself waking up. I stare at my fireplace. I heat my water. I bathe. I clothe myself. I live, or at least I try to, the best way I know how. And perfect blue, there you are again drawing me far away; a promise in the curl of your hair and the way the ice reflects the sun; once again, you, perfect blue. My perfect blue.

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I guess I lied. As I write this now I remember your hands, the way they scrubbed my back. When the sky darkened and my cabin trembled with the mountain and the earth came crashing down above our heads.  When we curled into each other and you and I were all that was left of the world. How warm I was then, perfect blue. How small. How resplendent, decadent. How I felt that you were me and I was you, together, we: perfect blue.

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Come see me again. I long to see you; if you cannot reach me, search for me as I have you. Remember the crevices in our world, our dark honeymoon, and look for me, my perfect blue.

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Yours,

C.