If I could drink up the hue of you, 
I would be a plant beaming 
chlorophyll.  
Oh, a color so refreshing 
that you could turn carbon dioxide into glucose. 

You are the speckles of moss on the 
north side of a tree. 
The stark contrast of fresh basil 
on a steaming plate of spaghetti. 

The murky liquid of matcha tea 
poured into a cup of milk, 
cascading around 
the ice cubes like the morning mist on a mountain.   

You are the sparkle that lives 
close to the pupils of my cat’s yellow eyes.  
The slimy goo of mucus that covers 
a princely frog. 
It jumps into a pond 
tinted with you,
glazed with a layer 
of persistent algae. 

If I could touch you, 
I would be overwhelmed 
with envy. 
But I cannot. 
You are that Gatsby light
that my hands reach out 
in longing.