I went to the hardware store and wrapped myself in a large camouflage hunting coat. Snuck to the Home Improvement section and began to fill its deep pockets with handfuls of stolen paint swatches. Their cardboard bodies bristled against security sensors as I made my way outside. Pulled clacking piles from my pockets and held them up, had to know that the sky in our new city was Grape Mist along its edges. When I got home you were asleep, your long Peppercorn rows of eyelashes crisscrossing, your lost Cobble Brown hairs dusting both of our pillows. I laid the swatches over your arms, had to know that the change in time zone didn’t tan your skin, didn’t create a you I knew less. This new heat, this new apartment’s windows, causing you to sweat stain our Pearl sheets an Oyster White. You woke to me covering your thighs, lips, fingernails with rectangles of color and said you did not understand—but why could you not just lie still? You sat up, sending a confetti of hues to the carpet (Moth Wing) before I could properly place the shade of your freckles, before I could finish cataloging the colors of your body, your Unfussy Beige cheeks turning to Bravo Red in what I can’t colormatch but recognize as anger.