I love her
not just to love
but because
she is someone
who is worthy of
being loved.

Darkness of the ages past.
Pick up the phone.
Time is fleeting;
It will never last.

She knew how to hold me
because she was used
to holding herself together.
She bound herself,
not from head to toe, but
from her flat stomach
to her nervous armpit.
Never quite comfortable
in her own skin,
but I was comfortable
against it.

I never knew what
name to call her.
So I called her
lover.
My lover would
rest with me.
Whispers filled the air
like clouds.
Our words were
puffy and white.
Others spoke
acid tongued storm clouds.

Now that she is gone
I still don’t know what
name to call her. Him.
His name
rolls off my tongue
as hers had.
Still bittersweet
and rough, still
my unstable rock.

Rocks crumble and learn
that the rain washes them away.
Rain learns that falling on,
or for, rocks
bruises the heart
and breaks the ribs.
Yet still, the rain comes and
my heart ruptures and
my chest aches of cracks. Still
I long for him.
For her.  For us.

Thats how I will remember her; just as she was.  Laying in my bed wearing her rastafarian drug rug that twinned my own, holding my lanyard close and my brother even closer.  She laughed as she watched me drink lemonade that I later learned contained laxatives, and she avoided any type of emotional outburst that didn’t reveal that she just might not be okay.  As I started to exit my room and said “Goodbye”, she surprised me.

“Don’t say that Bean.”

I looked down at one brown eye and one eye colored fake blue with a contact lens, and I saw sadness in both.  So I smiled sadly and said,
“Instagram you later.”

Green grass and
sunny days.
Overhead,
the squirrels play.
Birds in the sun and
fresh soil dug.
A brand new stone
of grey.

Smell the air; he fails.
His mother will be home.
Scrape burnt chocolate into the trash
and spray Febreeze.
Bloodshot eyes
and goodbye Mary.

Oily air, greasy skin,
hot stove tops, and
delicately arranged lemons.
Potato pans and crushed croutons.
Take orders and
watch the clock.