The sad look in your eyes,
breaks my heart.
I don't know what it is,
but then I might know what it is.

I don't need to know
if you are okay,
I can see it in your expression.
The limpness in your bottom lip,
the way you shoulders are slumped over,
the way your eyes glide their way
to me and then look back at the table.

That's a stupid question.
I won't ask you that.

But I need to know
if you will be okay.

When?
I don't care when.
The sooner the better though.
But if you feel like
you will be okay,
that you can see the light
at the end of the tunnel
and find your way
out of the mess,
then that's all that I need to know.

I just want to know,
Will you be okay?

One of the best days of my life,
teeters between first and second
like the moment you lose balance
and your body tenses
and sways back and forth until inner peace is found.

It was cold out
but we ran around outside anyways
in the dark night
in the glowing beems from the streetlights.
We sat on that bench that said
"Dedicated to Mark Xander"
or something like that.
We watched the sunset
pull the pinks and oranges out of the sky
below the surface of the Columbia.
You fell asleep in my lap,
as I ran my fingers through your hair,
for some reason you love that so much.
And I watched you,
you looked so peaceful.

A few minutes later
you woke up
and jumped
saying
"We're losing time!"

We ran up a few more blocks
to the downtown park
and sat by the man-made waterfall
that drizzled down from the clock tower.
Aspen trees bordered the square
already decked out in their flashing Christmas lights.
I love Christmas decorations,
did you plan this? I thought.

We traced the bricked earth with our toes
as we held hands on the bench.
The clock struck 8:00.
You stood up
and took my hand
and we kissed
as the giant bells sang to us,
beautifully.

It felt like a small promise...
that one day I'll hear those bells again
on our wedding day.
We pulled away and I looked into your eyes,
I could tell you thought
the same thing as I.

I don't remember much of the rest of the night.
My eye sight was blocked
from my clenched cheekbones
so big from smiling so wide.
All I can remember, was that we
were the happiest people on earth.

It's been almost a year since that day,
and we still remember
and embrace
that one Sunday
as the best days of our life.

I write
to admire the beauty
of the world
our thoughts.

I write
to share my joy,
ease my pain,
to try to forget.

Writing is an amazing thing
because it helps me
just almost
forget.
I put my pencil down,
and get on with my day.

But I'm afraid
that if I write about you dear,
the ink of
every word that you've said to me
every detail of your face
every feeling of your presence
and every memory of us
will sink under the surface
of the pages of white sea
and become forgotten.

I'm afraid
that one day
I will entirely forget
why I love you.

And its painfully true,
that it has happened before
and you knew.

And you know,
that I am afraid.

I've never had luck with blondes.
Well,
I've had lots of luck
falling ever so
deeply
in love with them.

With their eyes
of bright hues in
blue, green, and greys.
Going head over heels
for their charming smiles
that make your eyes linger a little longer
that what's permitted.
Dying
to feel their
godlike
comforting
powerful
touch.

That was easy.
Horribly easy.

But what surprised me,
kicked the backs of my knees
and made me crumble to the pavement
were that those handsome
heavenly faced blondes,
have no soul.

And I am sure of it,
because every
single
******* time,
they leave me...

Alone in the dark,
confused,
disoriented,
with not a single word.
Which leaves my thoughts
to echo in the emptiness,
rummage around inside my skull,
looking in the hollow cabinets
searching for clues
and slowly growing
frustrated
and angry,
angrier,
angriest.
But not at the blonde boys.
At myself.
As of what I did wrong?
Why did they go?
How could I let this happen again?

And every time,
I can never find the reason.
Those blonde boys
just appear in the rays of the summertime
with their golden locks of hair
and leave with their icy dark souls
in the cold breeze of the fall.

And I know,
they will be back next year.
With the sun,
and happiness
and my stupidity.
Until then though
I'm stuck with the abusive markings and stabbing aches.

He doesn't last long
like the flowers in my garden
that I try to grow every year.

He doesn't stay long
just washes down the storm drain
with the worms in the rain.

He is agonizing,
can't walk away fast enough
like the stormy clouds that interupt my day.

Very little memories,
and ones kept aren't pleasant.
And only recalled occasionally when staring out the window of a ****** day.

He,
They are Spring.
My least favorite.

His skin
is burnt and broken out
like cracked pavement trampled by children that run and shout.

His eyes
are wild and constantly changing
from blue, to grey, to green,
unpredictable like the teenage flings that are lovely and mean.

His smile
is bright and charming
like a sunny day that you just can't stop enjoying.

His hair
is brown and opaque
like the dirt that's under our feet.

He is summer.
When all the best times happen.