Brown

It is the color you might have thought boring. It is the color that I have found contoured, nuanced, subtle, riveting. 

Like dark furrows scratched into my own eyes, your tannins were clay in my hands, dirt in my fingers, stains on my jeans. The scorch of the earth in a smudge against me. 

There are no brown sunsets. There are no browns in rainbows. No brown in storms and no brown in hail. 

But there are storms in your eyes, hail in your stares, light in your gaze, if seen at the right angle. 

The brown suns in your eyes have drawn me into their orbit for so long. Like bourbons melting liquid gold in a glass and like ice coloring riverbeds. Your browns have temperature and texture, tempest and tenure, and they unveil in an unblinking stare when they burn coal black in an evening. 

Your browns are the golds that I have sifted in all your gazes and they are the remains of a color that I alone can simply treasure. Nuggets at the bottom of an effort where I have dipped into the water of you and swirled til I have left only your stare and its priceless image. 

That I can simply recall when I choose to clench my eyes shut into a black that reveals your brown.