He was ashy gray the day he kissed me the first time. A soft gray like a kitten or a skein of yarn. Soft and fluffy.
The first few months I knew him he was a dark charcoal black. Burnt. Smelling of smoke and bonfires and gunpowder. His smile had an edge to it then.
He took me home and was a warm comforting black. A summer night with the stars out and the moon hiding on the horizon. Warm blankets in a dark bedroom.
The day we broke up he was a steel gray. It was cracked and jagged. It matched the sky outside where teh rain fell in sheets. Hard and fragile and cold.
And now? Months later? He's the fuzzy gray of the sweatshirt he gave me. the worn and weathered gray of the clouds. The hard steel of a silver necklace, and the presence of his gray shadow next to mine.
