Easy

“What’s your favorite color?”

you ask me

and I freeze.

You laugh

because I’m thinking too hard,

like there must be a correct answer.

No one has asked me that

since I was a kid.

Ironic—

because the way you’re making me blush

whisks me into a world

of childlike whimsy

where time disappears

and suddenly I have

nowhere to be,

nothing to do,

but stand here,

watching you

cook us scallops on your stove.

“Oh man,” I say, “I don’t even know anymore.

What’s yours?”

You shuffle to the sink.

“Easy,” you say.

Being with you is easy.

I admire the rag over your shoulder

and your soapy hands—

you don’t even let me help clean.

I pour us another drink.

“It’s yellow.”

And somehow it makes sense

when you put down your glass

and shift your hips toward mine

and smell the bourbon on my breath

and lean into our static

and pull me in

and press your lips to mine

and for the first time,

my heart bursts

into Yellow.