He is thunder.
His laughter booming. You hear him laugh and you want to know the joke. He is hi-fives and gum and lucky pennies and songs and light and stars and dreams.

She is lighting.
She extraordinarily radiating. Lose her and you'll miss her. But catch her and you will never regret waiting to take that picture. She is pinky promises and chocolate and rain and sunsets and kisses and sand.

They are the definition of imperfectly amazing.  They are reason for Friday. They are old photographs with memories brimming at the edge. They are bonfires and hands fitting together like two long lost puzzle pieces finally reunited.

They are often mistaken

They are usually  forgotten

They are moments, they are time.

They are you, they are me

They are **us.

You move on all fours, hands are your feet
getting pink-breasted by a garden tulip
and roses gather your thorns to a side street
where we once met, in love just enough.

There was much in that café sort of city,
I thought it was Christmas even in summer:
even on a grey day, you made it pretty
while the clouds so septic, swept me under.

Could not digest the place that is love,
for it felt overgrown and I was just a guest
dining with what is pure, nesting doves:
the meal charcoaled my stomach to unrest.

And I learned that a stationary loving
   is not worth a lifetime of running.

Tears of blood, predicting a flood;
Worn out soul, screeching in mud.

Splendid mornings turn out to rust;
Where shedding tears is considered must.

Sparkling eyes chasing crystals in the sky;
Thou each gaze pulls me strongly, making a way to die.

Strings of emotion tuned to deviate and devastate;
Crumbled heart seeking the happiness over-delayed.

The beauty of my soul vanishes away;
Thou enchant a spell to stand out in the breaking day.

Abhorring the wounds, all over the heart;
Surrendering to the agony, caused by the poisoned dart.

Thou snatched my life, scorned the blissful smile;
Blessing with the everlasting pain, in thee own style.

World around me perishes as thee left me forlorn;
Sweet smells bitter, flowers turn into painful thorns.

Invisible thee, but apparent to me;
Seeking thou in Eden, finding the glee.