It's 98 degrees on a saturday, you are looking at me, all of me. Each hair on my arm stands on end.
"Kiss me." You say as your arms wrap around my bare legs.
"No." I say.
It's the last I see from you.

Now without you here the spaces between my fingers seem to last miles. My knuckles white against peach stand out like landmarkers pointing to places we made. My sholders became landfills, my spine an empty highway, my freckles forgotten lighthouse's without you. You took the noise and the bustle of the town we made.

The colors on his canvas were as bright as his mind. He had paint on his shirt front and bed head. He was adorable in the way he rolled his Rs and the way he'd stick his tounge to the top of his mouth after a bowl of ice cream. He was and is perfection.

She wanted to much,
but when was that ever wrong?