Imagine this:
Crystal blue persuasion soundtracking cigarettes smoked in parking lots.
We spent the night crowded around a small table with glasses of wine and a variety of beers. One was blueberry, and they let me try it. It wasn't very good but I also don't have the same affinity for ales that they do.
We played Sorry and smoked cigarettes. We talked about our intimate stories and the things that we take pleasure in. We played scrabble until the sunrise and I lost and we all grabbed blankets and drunkenly stumbled to the front lawn.
We pondered on what color the sky was for some time. We even pulled up a chart of different shades of blue, but couldn't find a perfect match.
I still think it was pretty close to cauliflower blue though.
I ran inside, too tired to try to stay awake any longer and found myself in blankets of white and walls of grey.
I slept in the bed of a minimalist.
I rolled over and looked into the one pair of eyes I could never see the soul of.
Those eyes, like crystal waters, hold a world beneath them no one would dare to endure the pressure of on their shoulders to explore. There's something about them, an aerial view of large black pupils swimming in summer pools surrounded by snow.
They're mysterious, they're wise, they're a word I've been searching for, in that antique dictionary, in tiles of finished games on scrabble boards, that I just can't seem to find...
Like trying to match the exact shade of blue and having to choose cauliflower blue disappointedly.
Staring into them makes you feel vulnerable, like he can see straight through you, like he knows everything you're thinking and feeling and everything you've ever thought or felt, and it scared me.
So I adjusted my gaze to the light freckles on pale skin, the blonde strands lining his chin, full lashes lining his lids. And I fell asleep peacefully.
**
When I woke up, the sun from the blinds split into lines along your white sheets, your hair, your spine.
It looked lovely.
I stood up and took a step back to take it all in.
There was a stillness in the hourglass on your bedside table, piles of white sand lying silently at the bottom.
I smiled softly.
You woke up.
The tea kettle screamed.
You left for work and I left you a note.
Thank you for lending a pillow, and a contentment and appreciation for the softness in my life.
This poem is about a friend so dear to me, that I have learned so much from even though he doesn't know it.
This is an appreciation poem to him because I feel like there aren't enough of them.
Thank you