I looked out at the birds congregating in groups on floating pieces of ice that moved with the river. It was cold, but not cold enough to freeze the entire surface of the water. The couples on the boardwalk nuzzled against one another, rubbing noses into necks, emerging from scarves to steal kisses. Everyone had someone. I thought about him and how nice it would be if he were here with me, not even speaking, just standing and experiencing this moment in time by my side. A warm, puffy sense of hope filled my chest and the possibility that someday in the future we could be standing next to one another looking out at this same scene made me giddy.

I glanced down and realized I had been holding my camera for the last ten minutes. The chilly air had numbed my hands. I let out a quiet chuckle and thought about how funny it was that a human being could physically be doing something and not actually feel themselves doing it. It seemed sad that someone could live a lifetime existing with a disconnect between what they were feeling and what their body was doing. I took a breath and let myself be glad I didn’t live like that. I looked across the bank at the soft, pinkish-orange light washing over everything in view. The Kennedy Center stood over the Potomac River, strong and sharp like a fortress. It was trying to act emotionless and ostentatious, but it wasn’t fooling me. The golden rays that managed to escape the grip of the clouds above raced down to earth and plastered themselves on the building, displaying themselves as sparkling, facetious smirks. I wondered what it was like to be that building, staring over that river every day of every week of every month of every year.

The water, the light, the air, the building--it all looked quite ethereal. A group of birds rustled and made the communal decision that it was time to leave. As I watched them pick up, push off their ice patch, and fly into the afternoon air, I stood amazed once again at the sugarplum sky. All I could think was that if love had a color, it must be this.