There is a song.
I've been told it's about a girl named love and her story of pigeon-toed tragedy. I wouldn't know, my radio only sings about alive, textured things. Love is a color, a person. A color, an adjective, maybe a verb. Possibly a shape, but definitely a color. Everyone says it's red, but it's really clear, like glass. Cold and shiny and see-through and sometimes - well, sometimes plastic. This would never make any sense to you, you who always thought you understood what I was trying to spell out (stuttering red lips in the shape of love, screaming names of cities of people I used to know, places I dream about flying to. I'm terrified of planes, but I'm a bird) and whisper into golden Goldilocks' hair. Your face changed with the weekdays. Thursday. I loved you on Thursdays, but you listened to that song, that one about love. It's false advertisement. They say love's red.
You don't know. I mean, they don't. Know, that is. They don't know and neither do you and I'm left standing on the side of a road with fingers carved into the cement, selling tickets to the four A.M. show, alone and trembling by myself with you. It's cold here. I'd send you a postcard with a picture of your family on it, but I don't think you'd read it. You might send it back. You wouldn't accept anything I'd have to give you, not anymore. You wouldn't want to be reminded of those days we were close to being the same person, hips almost touching and bad breath and crooked-straight teeth and secrets. And so you left. I'm left here in this town that calls me names, this place that feels more broken than my arms. And that's saying something. (You bruised them pretty well.) I'm left saying words like 'dilemma' and 'dignity' and 'forget-me-not', keeping the riverbanks in and learning about chord progression, just so I can write you a real song. Something you can't throw away or send back. I'm left here, stealing the stars away in a jar, leaving them on my shelf to sputter out. I'm left here, picking the rainbow reflections out of my glasses, so I'm not blinded anymore. I never saw it coming. I swear to you, I didn't.. couldn't see it. I'll send you a picture of my ribcage, shattered and dreaming your name.
A name. My name. Your name. It has no feel except for the sight of your tongue rolling around your crooked teeth. A name has no sound, no matter what they say. They don't know anything. They sang about love, remember? A name has no boundaries, no meaning. I could tell you my name was Brendon. I could tell you my name was Charlotte. My name is Corey. I'm lying to you.
The cardboard found behind my crooked heart is soggy and disintegrating, weary and bent from peering lovingly at crooked neighbors' crooked lives. I miss you, neighbor. Never come home. While you were away, someone stitched the word 'love' and a name beside it into my white chest with clear string. What does this mean? The significance, what is this to you? Nothing. What am I to you? Nothing. I am something with(out) you. Maybe it was the other way around. I can never remember correctly. It's fuzzy around the creases, your and my edges growing, planting, singing new meaning. They paid me in memories to tell you about love.
All I know is that it's not red.