Of a Feather

I spun round and you were gone.
As if the sun had suddenly
disappeared behind
the only puffy white cloud
in a blue sky.

All those blues. We were talking about blue:
sky blue, sea blue, turquoise, aquamarine,
blue green.

I turned round to show you the shade and
when I turned back
you were gone.
Leaving me with blue graffiti,
a single rook,
hearts and scribbles,

the sun making midday shadows,
standing stupidly in a pool of black
behind your hideously hand-painted,
overstuffed blue chair.
Where are you?