When you can communicate
With only "that look"
Something must be going right

When conversations can start with rants
And end with adventures
Something must be going right

When you can't remember
A time when you weren't friends
Something must be going right

When texts are serious
And nonsense all in one
Something must be going right

When the future is vast and scary
But you promise to never drift
Something must be going right

And that's what a best friend is for

After a great deal of climbing
I reached the top
and paused to admire things from
that new place. The sky was
a trio of hues (halcyon dragging to
teal fading to slate) and the sun was
a great big bright thing
(inflamed, illuminated).
Inch by inch, I lifted my arms,
as if to embrace the gusts of wind
licking at my skin.
I tilted my face toward
the volcanic dazzle and
stood there a while, imbued with
ponderous joy. The longer I
remained, the more sure of
everything I became,
of the steady drumbeat of energy
pulsing in the dirt,
of the synergistic tangle of
death and life.
My scalp began to tingle with a
giddy, glowing sensation:
a breathless sort of reverence
I had never known.
Oh, what a life,
I thought
and took off down that hill with
arms out like airplane wings,
not caring what the neighbors
might think

There is something romantic
about
           light
                     snowfall
                                      on an early spring morning.
I just can't put my gloved finger on it...
It has something to do with
the final goodbye of Father Winter,
the last kiss
                    from
                            falling
                      flakes.
Perhaps it's the way
the birds still chase each other
despite the cold whip of the snow.
Maybe it's the way the daffodils look,
                  yellow     dresses
                         powered
                              in
                        sparking
                       diamonds,
           swaying
      slowly to
            Father's
      lulling tune.
It has something to do with the way
the waking sun
                          pours
                                    pink
                                            light
onto the dreary eyed school children

Yes, there is something romantic
about a
             light
                     snowfall
                                   on an early spring morning.
But it's heartbreaking to
crumble
                the fresh blanket,
or to watch it
             melt
                             away.
Seeing the sun
                 beating
                    heat
onto frozen grass,
until the snow
sinks or
hides in shadows.
Soon all that is left of the morning snowfall
                                                        ­                 is the crisp breeze
and the odd sense of mourning
among the spring daffodils.

I missed the taste of you.
And the way your lips pressed to mine so lovingly and filled to the brim with affection.

I missed the way you watched my movements.
As if I was a rare animal in the wild, which both fascinated and inspired you.

I missed the way your hands felt.
And the way they curled into mine, fitting as if they were destined to be there.

I missed the way you made me laugh.
The most honest smiles I have ever made were in your presence.

And I knew we'd make it.

My perfect constellation.
My greatest adventure.

My love.

And even in the midst of those who say "NO" and "NEVER", we find ourselves surrounded by love and determination. A little home built for our hearts. And a triumph like no other.

(i. r)