he was blue
but not like the painter and not like the paint.
louis was blue because nothing else could describe him
properly. so he went about
his life being blue.
and
harry was keen, his
interest sparked, when he saw this
boy that was blue yet warm.
because harry always thought blue meant
cold, he
thought it strange,
different
that louis managed to be a paradox.
harry would sit with louis on park benches, even though he thinks louis didn't
pay attention to him,
harry thought it to make sense anyways.
louis told his stories about how he came to
be blue,
and how it started with his eyes.
harry never noticed louis' eyes but they were
bluer than any ocean or gem he'd ever seen. bluer than the
sky.
but harry doesn't truly think the sky is blue so he thinks louis is night time.
and he brings him to his favorite places sometimes when the
moon illuminates the way.
louis hasn't seen much of
the city but harry hates the countryside so he brings him places where
he feels pink.
i feel pink, but i know i'm blue.
you will always be blue.
pink and blue remind harry of
cotton candy and bubble gum so
he takes louis' to the fair and tries to make him yellow, because harry
still believes
blue means sadness. louis is tired of that but
harry gives him the time of
day so he doesn't argue.
louis thinks that harry plays his music too loud but
only when it's rock and roll. it doesn't
make sense but louis knows that he is an enigma. harry
does things that louis doesn't and in time he
puts the pieces together.
he knows nothing is
ever as he wants it to be as it seems, because
that means disappointment. and harry
hates
when things go horribly wrong.
you can't be blue forever.
you can't change me.
and harry doesn't listen. louis thinks it's the rock and roll that's too loud but harry rolls more than
he rocks.
so louis leaves without a single
word. and
harry is left, looking down
at his
fingertips,
fingertips left with traces of blue.
