First and foremost in everyone's mind
but mine
is the Green of the Crayola crayon.
As Green as factories and skyscrapers, like
man
and his tendency to take over.

Green looks different through my eyes.

I see the Green of a clover.
Green that is
alive.
Bouncing and bobbing and buoyant
as duckweed on the waves.
Promising and purposeful and persistent
as the first shoots of grass.
The Green that shows in the people with
bravery and bright smiles and bursting with
life.
I wish I was
lucky
enough to have more of the Green of a
clover.

I see the Green of an emerald.
The depth of Green,
the bottomless bottom of the ocean;
Green where I
drown in my thoughts.
The emerald city where my insignificance and significance
crush me all the same and I am
smothered in questions
questions
questions.
So many drown in the shallow Green of seaweed.  The Green of
money and makeup and my god have you seen Melissa's haircut?
The dollar bill Green of
envy and greed
that stops so many so many from diving any
deeper.

I see the Green of ferns and the Green of cacti.
Soft, soothing Green of
enough sleep
and
tea in the mornings
or
sharp, sinister Green of
alone
and
you should have studied.

I see the Green of Christmas trees
that should mean family and giving and light but
instead
means pretend to like her and
smile at the right times and
why are you so
unfriendly I mean shy.
The dark, for everGreen of the most
wonderful
time of the year.

I see the Green of my eyes.
The bluish goldish brownish color
that everyone sees a little
differently
but that's ok.
Because everyone sees Green a little
differently.

Sometimes I wonder
how the clouds
keep on keeping on
up there
alone.
But now I see, and
understand
the
rain.

"Penny for your thoughts?"
His cigarette grins and meets my eyes.
Penny for my thoughts?
Heavy eyelash curtains drop and I chuckle in disguise.

Honest Abe won't buy you a piece of my mind,
You could offer me the wealth of the world and you still wouldn't win.
There isn't a level of confidentiality high enough for what goes on in my head,
Unparalled security lies behind green eyes and salty skin.

"Penny for your thoughts?"
The cigarette gives up and ashes mix with the sidewalk salt
Penny for my thoughts?
The security guards change shifts as sad laughter echoes in the vault.

I love the way the leaves show their true colors every year right around my birthday
And
I love the way the trees sigh and fall asleep every winter under new white blankets
It's the in between seasons I can't stand
The hot tears of snow running down muddy sidewalks
And
The betrayal of red red leaves falling into the sand at the beach
But we're stuck in an in between season right now, and it's
Enchanting
The ground is littered with leaf bones that crunch under my feet
The trees are bare and spindly little things
Waiting for winter.
It's an ugly ugly world
But I love it.

Maybe it's the way the ground has stopped spinning.
The clouds hold their breath,
Not a single tree sways in the nonexistent wind.
Maybe it's the smell of the air,
The smell of nothing.
In fall the air is laden with the heavy aroma of wet leaves
And
In winter the air is so cold it bites the inside of your nose.
Right now, it's empty.
Inhale, exhale, nothing;
It's wonderful.

We make a perfect metaphor,
This in between season and I.
Maybe that is the reason I love it so.
Two unlike things with so much in common:
We're stuck, not moving forward and not looking back,
Full of emptiness
Holding our breaths
Teetering on the edge.
I'll let you know when they fall.
The snowflakes, I mean.

I love the idea of the tortured genius
the encaged intellectual
trapped artist
It's poetic,
Somehow
Bursting with knowledge
Intellect
Creativity
Except..
not bursting.
A balloon one breath short of
POP!
A prison cell for ideas
Always at war
A raging internal hurricane that only escapes in whispers, occasionally
"What did you say?"
"...Nothing"
Such a splendidly gorgeous mind,
Hidden behind a shy sweater and a pair of old conflicted capris
I love the idea of the tortured genius.
The life of one?
Not so much
It's poetic,
In a tragic sort of way

Do not store up for
yourself
treasures on earth.
Material things will fade.
But
You better be grateful for these
fading things.
Especially because you are so
blessed
with everything that isn't supposed to
matter.

And maybe
you're alone.
And maybe
you cry yourself to sleep at night.
But
You better be thankful
because
your stomach is full and
you have a warm bed to
cry I mean sleep
in.

Why
are these
fading
things the mark of the “blessed”?
Why
aren't we allowed to be anything
but
grateful?
I mean thank God for this new outfit
but
for my birthday I would like a
friend.
And
I am so grateful for that delicious Sunday dinner
but
what I wouldn't give to find some
happiness
under the Christmas tree.

All sarcasm aside
thank God
for everything I am blessed with.
But
if material things don't matter
I am poor
starving
hopeless
deprived.
A little love,
please?
Any spare happiness for my
beggar's cup?
But
I'm not allowed to say that.
Because I am so
blessed
with these things that don't matter.
And don't I dare ask for
love
because I already have
so much nothing.

Cross my heart and hope to die,
I'd rather be
starving and loved
than
starving for love.

She sipped her salt water and
wore glasses rimmed in a bloodred hue.
Behind them, watery blue eyes glistened.
Not sparkled,
Mind you.
She sniffled into her hand:
"I've got this dreadful cold!"
Makeup smeared and creased in wrinkles that had nothing to do with getting old.
She lifted her lips to reveal her teeth once in a while.
But not once, I tell you,
Not once,
Did she smile.

Her heart's desire is to live on the coast,
Where the salt water from the ocean and the depths of her eyes will mix until even she can't tell them apart.

He
is always there.
Not in a
hand holding,
eye smiling
type of way.  More like
a misleading shadow,
an unshakable ache.
He gets me when I am
weakest.
One tiny misstep and I lose my
balance
and he is there to push me
down
knowing full well that
no one
will help me up.

He slinks in on the blackest of
nights
like rejection.
Climbs through the locked window,
slips under my bed
like the invite that doesn't exist.
I toss and turn all night,
knowing he is there and knowing that he will
always
be there.

Ironically,
I see him most in rooms crowded with the color of
voices.
I try to open my mouth to speak but he fills it with
cotton
like a roll of the eyes.
So
I sit in my gray corner of silence
watching him from the corner of my vision.
He looms and lingers
like the empty chair at lunch that doesn't exist
and I am trapped tongue tied terrified.
Torrents of tears.

He knows the ones closest to me the best.
Better than I know them -
better than they know me.
He keeps me from them:
Christmas parties,
Sunday dinners,
“home,”
it's just me, myself and I.
He
gives them fire to fuel their disappointment.
And suddenly I am no longer
quiet
I am
unfriendly.
And suddenly I am no longer
shy
I am
antisocial.
I know it is he who gives them these words,
fills them with lies that I do
nothing
to counter.
Does that make them true?

He,
the Alone,
knows me better than most.
Than all.
I have gotten to know him, too.
He lashes out, fills my days with black,
but only because he, too, is
alone.
He hurts anyone who gets
too close
to him because he doesn't know how to be anything but
Alone.

It's okay, I understand, I've been there.
I am there.
Sometimes I lash out, too.