Blue is the Loneliest Color

I will never forget the salty, clean scent of your cologne or the way your hands were always so chilly. 

The way you would stand up against that crumbling brick wall in a navy cardigan with toggle buttons and a plain white tshirt, a part slightly tucked into your jeans. 

Or your cigarettes, that puffed a blue smoke. 

Ah yes the cigarettes I will remember you best by. The smoke was a delight, never smelling foul or pitiful but light-floral and fruity and innocently wonderful. The smoke would curl around the side of the building and around my arms, enveloping me in a warm embrace. The smoke would whirl into pictures of surreal extravaganzas; like circuses or carnivals on the beach; fields of vibrantly rich blue flowers of varying shades. 

They would swirl around your face until only your Cheshire cat grin was visible, the smoke lightly sitting at the base of your neck. 

It's my favorite memory of you, only the second time you were blue. For you were always so happy and blissful and radiant. Blowing smoke rings with the blue smoke to make even the most cynical of watchers crack a smile. 

I always smiled. Blue seemed to be your color. Blue suited you, like the simple cigarette sitting wittily corked between your soft, lightly pink lips, puffing out blue smoke every now and again. 

Blue, like the color of your lips, when I finally removed the rope.