I wrote a poem called 'Navy Blue' a couple of years ago, and just recently took it down because, um, it wasn't that good. But after someone actually noticed it was gone, which amazed me, I decided maybe I would try my hand at re-writing it.
Warnings: cheesy rhymes, failed meter. Slash if you squint.
. . . .
He's always dressed in navy blue,
though he never tells me why.
It's a difficult thing to understand
when you've spent your life
alone and living in a place
where the darkness doesn't die.
I love the warmer colors
of the earth when it's asleep:
the yellowing reds of embers
and the browns of deep,
fragrant soil that grows
and gives beneath your feet.
But he, he relishes the evening
and the coming of the tide;
the nighttime rustling of insects
and the wide-set eyes
that watch secret, scented flowers
begin to bloom instead of hide.
He says there is allure in blue,
hidden among the folds,
and I listen to all of his stories
of beauties unextolled—
but what I believe is right before me,
wrapped in blue and gold.
I know there, beneath the clothes,
there lies a broken breast;
a weak heart and wounded lungs
trapped in a sunken chest.
But even under navy blue,
such a life won't be repressed.
I've seen the strength of navy
just by watching him,
and seeing how he even fights
when it's certain he can't win.
It takes a kind of courage
to know you'll lose and still begin.
The fragile edges of his smile
whisper of the hope there too,
and there is something inside of me
that knows it must be true
when he intertwines our hands and says
we're only give what we're due.
I know by now that passion is
rare in a man so reserved,
but it's always there, in ebony
and dark blue; the wrinkled curve
of velvet jackets on the floor
and soft music that goes unheard.
There is a love in navy blue,
despite the darkness there,
and when I kiss the tiny secret
shadows of his throat I swear
I hear him say our hearts are not
to the point beyond repair.