Shall I compare thee
to a summer's day?

No.

Because ********.

Underneath her soul was blue.
inside his heart his was too
they kept it hidden out of view
all their life they craved for blue
then passed right bye
and never knew.

Under those bridges like ladders, we walked and we slept,
With the lives that we picked apart and the pieces we kept,
A backwards world gone broken, pieces falling down like rain
Shiny shattered shards of ruin, but the reflection will remain,
And she waits and she watches, slowly licking at her fur,
Maybe we wake up to dream, maybe the path crosses her,
Sleeping under blankets in summer, open umbrellas indoors,
But can’t go back to teenage sunsets, can’t fight our parent’s wars,
It will take time, maybe our whole lives, but everything for now,
Dangling from the end of her string with a sick sweet meow,
And the only thing I need to know is if old men still dream,
When silence is golden, am I worth my weight in a scream?
Seeking a world with cyan skies where Fridays only come in twelves,
We saved yesterday for tomorrow, but still can’t save us from ourselves,
Seven more years, six more months, one last day and then through,
As the thought finally occurs that it was me crossing you.

I am the girl dressed up in blue or green,
I am the boy who would be king or queen,
I am the woman with her bride to be,
I am the man behind the surgery,

I see logic fall before the fable,
I see 4 cell phones at the dinner table,
I see self-worth inside a shopping cart,
I see selfies valued more than art,

I hear politicians bang the drums of war,
I hear us argue which life matters more,
I hear shouting across a yawning schism,
I hear decency mislabeled as heroism,

I know a hashtag doesn’t provide relief,
I know a t-shirt does not equate belief,
I know a comment is not a conversation,
I know money cannot purchase salvation,

I am the girl bullied on the internet,
I am the boy with scars he can’t forget,
I am the woman labeled **** or *****,
I am the man owes the world much more.

I saw her in statues,
a summit so high,
but all mountains crumble,
in pursuit of the sky.

She knew me as rumor,
ramshackle repose,
buried under the burden,
of dust and shadows.

I loved her in glances,  
from airplanes and cars,
on cold city nights,
spent searching for stars.

She found me unraveled,
in the ashes of art,
a child devoid of wonder,
a page torn apart.

I lost her some midnight,
in thin neon glow,
to a remaining reminder,
from late long ago.

She forgets me in pieces,
Past tense pinot noir,
a third second chance,
a well-faded scar.

I miss her as conflict,
weak in the cause,
an unfinished ending,
born of finality’s flaws.

Both hands in my pockets, a blank page tucked in my shoe,
Call it a list of every little thing I wouldn’t give for you,
Traded the city for salvation, but found neither kingdom nor crown,
We were too young for such silence, and far too old to settle down,
Now standing on a subway platform, New York buzzing overhead,
My skull sick with the ghosts off all the things we never said,
Pale skin caked with shadows, dull eyes lit low with fear,
Please bring me back to you, or any place that isn’t here.

I remember the way you laughed while you played the piano. Your dark brown eyes followed your hands, gliding across the keys. They were just broken chords, but you made it sound like a cadenced sonata. I look at old pictures and fall in love with the people my parents used to be: free-willed, adventurous, happy. I wonder who convinced them they'd fall miserable if they didn't change. I burn these musty incense in an effort to get a smell different than that of sadness. But all they do is turn it to smoke and send it drifting through my head. You don't get high because you get scared; I get scared either way. Everyone is enchanted by the sunset; but once it's gone, they leave the moon to be alone. I want to feel what I felt when I laughed and you stared and mustered a "wow' in awe. You've become everything I've wanted, and further proscribed.

The sky is the color you see when you close your eyes. Not quite black, just dark. It was nice, the way you looked at me when I was calm. How your smile caressed your eyes, your shoulders seemed to relax. The flowers I planted never grew; they must've been too weak, consumed by the earth. I watch happy people and realize how shallow they are. They space out and talk about their favorite tv shows and worry about stains on their shirts. My fingers are strangely shaped: they curve in and out, thinner than normal. But somehow they fit perfectly with yours, straight and perfect, always oil-stained and callused. I remember when I draped my arm across your chest and felt the scars on your shoulder. How they were arranged in such a familiar pattern. I traced them so carefully and read the word 'fear'. I wish I didn't write about you. I wish I didn't write at all. I know the smell of my mother's perfume. It reminds me of the times she came home and I ran to her after hours of waiting restlessly. Now it chokes me and creates a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes. No one's voice could ever fade in the background yet be heard so clearly except yours; a piano ballade in a distant room. We spend so much time trying not to take things for granted that we end up taking things for granted, for granted. "I ruined the flower you gave me. I didn't mean to," you said to me. It's been three years, and I feel like the flower.