So red, out of sight!
Talk about the cold shoulder
Is it summer yet?

Pressure isn't always harsh.
It doesn't have to be the grim and guttural.
It isn't always in regard to the coarse.
There's the soft kind, sweet.
The gentle pressure of lips against a collar bone.
Fingertips tracing freckles,
Valves working at elevated speeds.
Pressure needn't be a villain.
It can be a tender confession by means of softly spoken words.
Poignant colloquy put down with clean intentions,
The hum at night of dulcet tones into a receiver.
Mellow pressures on the heart and mind are pressures, too.
The pressure of eyes directed toward skin,
A foot on a gas pedal.
The pressure caused by closing distance.

Pressure me.

It's been five years now.
Five years flew by,
five years into thin air,
five years forever gone.

I cannot remember a time,
where I felt more anger,
hatred,
disgust.

I carry these emotions still with me to this very day,
in hope that I will someday wake up,
and no longer feel them.

Sometimes I find myself waking in the night,
calling your name,
reaching out for you,
only to feel cold sheets on the other side.

I write this to you now,
not because I am lonely,
not because I am desperate,
but because I love you.

No matter how much hatred I feel,
I always will love you.

Autumn moonlight--
  a worm digs silently
    into the chestnut.