She wore yellow
And bright were my skies
Breathed in fresh air
And in my stomach I felt butterflies
She wore yellow
And a big smile on her face
Heard her laugh
And my heart started to race
She wore yellow
And "my god" was all I could say
The sun found her
And I couldn't bring myself to look away
And without feeling myself
I said in a mutter
She wore yellow
And I knew my favorite color.

you are an artist.
you like to paint
                             smiles on your face to conceal the pain
you like to draw
                              laughs out of the hollow pit of your chest
you like to colour
                              your wrists red and taste the life flowing out of you
                              as if it would quench the thirst created
                              by the loss of someone that you knew
you are an artist
                             you love to create
                                                             you
                                                                     love
                                                                              to
                                                                                   erase.

When people ask me about my first love,
I remember the smell of melted crayons.
Not your smile, your golden skin, or the way your face would wrinkle in deep thought.
But about the carelessness of a child in your backseat,
And how with help from the sun,
your car was forever perfumed by a melted, purple Crayola.
I grew to love this scent.
It's an odd thing to even say aloud now.
However, it's permanently imprinted in my mind.
Over summers spent in your car and nights staring into your eyes,
I grew infatuated with this waxy, sweet aroma that filled the air between us.
It became your cologne that stayed with my clothes while you were away,
My comfort when you were near.
It was never sickening or invasive,
But desired and wanted.
So when people ask me about my first love,
I tell them about this boy who always smelled of crayons and how much I miss him.

I painted you.
With trembling, amateur precision,
I suffered each line on your face.

Each fleck of sun,
Your candid smile,
Your immediate beauty in the foreground
Of an exceptional ocean.

Stumbling blindly through the days,
Fumbling for the switch
In a punch-drunk, love-sick afternoon.

Apart from you,
Stripped, exposed,
Laid prone on the gurney
With my skull in a vice
And a fist to my stomach.

I can barely stand because of you.

I painted you this afternoon
So I could toil in your gaze.
Pray I am an interesting splatter,
A noticeable blight;
A happy accident on your page.

sometimes
                                                       ­                         my
                                     ­ brain
                       doesn’t
                                                       ­     work

right
                                                ­                               and

                             my

                                              thoughts

     ­                                         scatter

               ­                                                    like
                               beads

                                     spilled
                               on
                                                              ­                 tile

floor

You are a novel
gathering dust on my shelf
but not because I don’t want to read
but because I’m afraid
to turn the page,
afraid of how you’ll end