I have a broken crayon in my heart:

It used to be razzle dazzle rose with the hope of you.

After a decade gone by, your memory had become fuzzy wuzzy or even basic brown. I had forgotten until your apology and nine months of Facebook flirtations.

“I was a jerk,” you said. Sorry, sorry, you said.

I re-sharpened my mango tango limbs and tried to be my most exotic shade, a rose quarts that would capture your notice. But you came, you saw and you did not want to conquer.

I could see it in your cerulean blue eyes darkened like coal.

“Am I boring you?” I asked, and got your no, no.

Our five-day trip broke to three.

You needed something in the wild blue yonder. You needed confetti glitter, a spark like firecracker red.

I didn’t have it despite my magic potion purple attempts to be beautiful.

You left, and I felt the lemon-lime zing.

My tears were atomic tangerine, as if they could get me back to basic green when all I really wanted was you, not this broken heart.

I had a taste of my wild watermelon, and with this one lick, I’m off road and don’t know what to do.

I don’t know which crayon is right for me even with 120 colors.

Or is it that I need black to cover memories and hurts and the titanium white look of you. I could scratch off the pieces until a new palette results, like the bitter taste of key lime with a sweet after-tickle on the tongue.