Your favorite color was red.
This was the first thing you said to me, after you told me your name and I lied to you about mine.
We were at some party, and there were red paper cups full of beer lying all over the lawn, the cheap kind from the dollar store. The music was loud and your voice was drowned in it, I could barely hear.
Of all the things I could've said, I said why and you said "because it's better than all the others, it's like blood - it bleeds into everything else". I didn't understand, whether it was because I was buzzed or you were so close to me, closer than anyone had been in awhile, your eyes dark enough I couldn't tell the color, could see myself reflected in them.
Later, I'd find out that your eyes were blue (not like the sky but a darker shade, like the bottom of the ocean), when your parents got divorced (you were five), that you hated high school and wanted to drop-out but your mom wouldn't let you, how your brother had killed himself (overdose), what your favorite popsicle flavor was (orange), and the name of your favorite band.
These were the little things I'd remember most and the ones I'd try the hardest to forget. None of these were important but I cherished each, held them close to me when I couldn't hold you.
When your eyes were glazed over and your cheeks were flushed and there was something in your blue eyes that was bitter and raw, something in the sound of my name that would destroy us both.