I’m not an exuberant yellow, like the summer sun, or a New York City taxi. I’m not a striking red. I won’t catch your eye as you enter a room, or make your jaw drop. Nor am I any kind of shade of green. I won't blossom in the springtime. I’m kind, calm, and vast. Blue.

It’s the color of the oceans you vacation in, and the pools children learn to swim in. It’s the color that paints the sky. The early morning shade that witnesses the days first conversations, coffee runs, and sleepy morning walks with our four legged friends. It’s the dark shade that blankets the city and suburbs as we dream. It’s the refreshing water in our cups and a warm shower. It’s a steady heartbeat as we listen to a calm song or the discovery of a new vacation spot.

It’s the feeling we get when we're above the clouds. It’s a gust of wind pushing through strands of hair. Blue is late night conversations, the kind that takes place on a warm, humid, summer night, surrounded by mosquitos and fireflies, on sticky outdoor furniture, in the light of citronella candles. Or the kind that takes place in a dorm room, at 3:41 a.m.

Blue is the color of the iPhone light that keeps us up at night. It’s the distraction of a YouTube video or the weariness of a late night paper. Blue is the color of gloomy eyes. A color designated to sadness.

It’s the feeling of rain hitting the window as we fall asleep. It’s the sound of fingers on a keyboard or a reflection in the mirror. The color of concert lights, or the city.

Blue is the color of your favorite pair of ripped jeans. It’s the glow of your favorite movie on TV, and the mist of the sprinklers you used to play in. It’s the sweetness of cotton candy.

I’m not a lively yellow, like the sun. Nor am I bold like red. But I’m more than just a sad color.