Majorelle Blue

The guardian of memory is in blue.

He was a caricature of the thing,

not the thing itself,

as he sat there—

an old man in the corner,

clearly very rich,

white tuxedo on

as if he were going to the Oscars,

white tie and all that,

smoking his cigar.

I suppose happiness as a writer

is rather counterproductive,

but some nights I allowed myself it—

in vague fantasies of Majorelle blue,

and tonight was one of them.

It was pretty and warm.

Night closes in

and I wear roses,

doused in dreams

and magic

and starlight.

There are stars everywhere,

and I see them.

Enchantment is in this place

and it is in me.

I’m a vague tessellation of myself

in Majorelle blue.

Majorelle blue is much more hopeful

than lyrical blue,

but wearing yellow

is a matter of infinite hope.

I have moved

to a new shade of blue.

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