under your toes there's crushed dandelions, and soft, wet grass. the storm clouds swirl, and your pink drink fizzes near my hip.

you're lying flat on your back, next to my side. extended, lithe, pasty skin, and wearing your favorite sunglasses.

it's not sunny, but 'it's too bright.' you point at the glasses sliding on your nose, nails white, unlike the clouds in the sky.

you giggle, hoist yourself up, and curl in. pretzel-like, wrapped up, positioned right beside me.

your cat stares at us from the inside, and i could start to wonder what that must feel like, but you're humming a song i faintly recognize.

i lift the fizzy drink to my lips, and sip.

a twisted grin forms on your lips. 'you always take what isn't yours, princess.' maybe you're wrong though. maybe i never take enough.

you took a photo of me a while ago, under a willow tree, i'm all dimples and orange light leaks.

a fragment of who i want to be captured by you.

you took that photo from me. for a fact, it's lost in a pile, in your shoebox, of what you miss or what you never want to see.

let me get this straight: i never liked him, i loved you.

those iced matcha lattes, scattered laughter, angry outbursts followed by oceans poseidon could not fathom.

i don't hold grudges, but you do. i'll never get you back, because someone else has filled in your softer pieces.

filled in places where i carelessly splattered paint, in hopes you could pick out colors and make something beautiful.

i can almost hear your voice, 'god, she was a mess. all i have left is a broken heart.'

i might write about you forever, i might give up, it's pointless to romanticize sunglasses and your pointed remarks.

i'll stop.

just know, i think about that day a lot. your cat watching, your band t shirt, the lime green vans, fizzy drink at my hip, scattered storms.

or the time you drew a smiley face on a sandwich with mustard, or when we stole your dad's whiskey, and i finally melted into your mouth.

and yes, now,  i'll officially say, i took too much.

goodbye, my sweetest love.

lemon, sticky frosting, dry lips.
fingernails painted with nothing other than mustard.

toxicity measured in sweetness.
plummet into the acidic taste of citrus fruit.

when you finally kiss me, it's all marigolds,
and some dirt.

dream pop car rides, cotton candy skies;
like those songs with excessive descriptions about eyes.

the girls with green hair, and black boots
but you're all yellow, gold, butter, honeysuckle.

ma jolie citron.

my pretty lemon, honey eyes.

the sun came pouring in through the curtains. i use “pouring”, because spilling is too much of an accident, and shining is too happy for this kind of feeling.

but anyway, as the sun came pouring in, with no filters or light leaks, i traced the patterns on your dorky tapestry; the solar system nightlight still flickered on the ceiling.

you’re still asleep. you’re always asleep.

not literally, you know-like in the way where you’re as close as you can be to death. but, figuratively: in the sense where when i crashed that grocery cart into a shelf in January, and all the Campbell’s soup collided with the floor, you simply smiled, grabbed your Captain Crunch, and ruffled my hair.

your eyes flicker under heavy eyelids, and the sooner you wake up, the sooner i know the smell of cigarette will fill you up, and the toxins will wake up your poisonous thoughts.

in this instance, do not mistake poisonous for cruelty. i use “poisonous” because poison fills your veins, and infects your blood, and clouds your thoughts, reasoning, and brain.

you kind of poisoned me.

i say “kind of” because i think i have the antidote in my pocket, and it’s a gift from you, but i’m hesitant to drink it. if i were to drink it, you’d wash away; and instead of feeling clean or like i could breathe and think again, i’m pretty sure i’d drown, starve, choke; allergic to the fresh oxygen.

your eyes open slowly, but i’m not looking at you. i’m staring at the sun pouring in all of it’s light; unforgiving, relentless.

everything just pours:

that day i dug my head into your couch, like some sort of ostrich, sobbing, while your hands tried to find a way to comfort my cracked ribs, and nauseated heart. i could only scream  “*******:” it was pouring.

in March, at midnight, when i wanted the cappuccino, and you drove until the sun split through the horizon to find me my favorite cup of coffee. sometimes i’d stare at you for too long. you also began to habitually miss the green lights, because you were trying to convince me my giggles reminded you of bells you used to hear as a kid. you said you’d be anything i wanted you to be: it was pouring.  

when we were sitting on your itchy, carpeted, floor, in the middle of what was supposed to be class time, the air sticky and thick with smoke, my music shimmered in the background. as you took your hit, and filled the room with more smoke, our laughs cascaded off the walls, and into everything else around us: it was pouring.

there’s a sleepy voice in my ear, it’s definitely yours. if i turn to face you, does the pouring stop? does it get worse, and whirl into a hurricane? am i too much of a coward; too afraid to drown?

eventually, you roll out of bed, ruffling my hair and whispering “you’re beautiful” under your breath.

like i said: you're always asleep; unaware that you’re a storm, and i’m still debating whether or not i’m the lighting in your clouds, or the worms murdered on sidewalks.

the next day you text me “you’re all i’ve been thinking about.” and as i sit in class, i conclude i’ve been in charge of the weather since it poured, since the first time you said what’s up?

i pour into everything, i let you go.