I'm sorry,
I don't remember your favourite colour.

I know I asked and,
I know you told me and,
  I know I forgot, almost instantaneously;
I'm sure you'd shrug it off,
say it's no big deal,
and, I suppose I might agree,
but
I'd hope that you'd find it meaningful,
that you'd changed mine.

for now, its:

the intervallic hues
of your delicately feathered iris,
blanketed
under starlit night skies,
glittering
by the sodium haze
  of cityscape lights,
and how transient happiness
set the soft outline of your cheek
  ablaze.

your freckles laid out,
like maps of constellations;
  distant pinpoints, strung up on high,
   ages old,
just waiting to fall, at a moment's notice.

the palette of the sweetness of your skin,
made brushstrokes, weaving into my dreams,
  becoming masterpieces, as
literature
rolls
  from your lips
    in dry-ice cloud
  sepia tones,
washing out black and white photographs
I'd hung up,
  in homemade picture frames,
throughout the corridors of my chest.

so,
I'm not sorry for that.

but,
I am sorry if I ever hurt you,
{I don't think I did}
I'm sorry if I'm an *******,
{though I seem to be the only one to think this}

and,
I'm sorry...

I'm sorry if I love you.

He said I was an
Arnold Palmer
but there is too
much lemonade
in my bones.

If the world ends on Friday, I'd like you to know
You really are lovely, much more lovely than a hobo
Your hair is cooler than Ramona Flowers
Your style of dress, not nearly retro chic
But every time you speak, its more eloquent than Louis Phillipe.
Your music taste-divine
Not even Athena could match
I really do think you are quite a catch.
If the world ends on Friday, which I really do doubt
I'd like to spend that day, or some other, with you.