As red as the dark flush that spreads slowly over the tender skin of someone who has been outside in the cold for far too many minutes, building a snowfort or counting icicles, which can only be soothed by the calming touch of another.
As green as the shimmering curtains that are the Northern Lights when they fall over the land in waves, dripping again and again onto the treetops, between extended branches, through the outstretched arms and upturned faces of viewers below.
As blue as the ghost of sadness, who finds its way into the beds of lonely humans again and again, no matter how many times it is desperately sent away. As blue as its lingering afterglow, which hovers in the air and paints the walls with its melancholy.