Lavender Boy

I observe his hair, dyed periwinkle.
He tells me it was supposed to come out galaxy-colored.
“So it would match your eyes,” I don’t say.

We both hold a cappuccino
carefully,
as if to spill it
would be to spill our secrets.
“Mine has a leaf design,” he says.
“Mine has a heart,” is my response,
even though
they’re the same.

Steam rises from our drinks,
joining the morning fog.
We had woken up without an alarm,
because it was Saturday.

I comment that his hair is the same color as the sky
wrapped around the mountains.
“Colorado,” is his simple reply.

So it is that we are;
so it was that we were.