I wore my Sunday best,
I am ready to shed this year.

I bore sorrows through eyes as yet unharmed,
I know better now.

I learned love and love learned me,
Now we sit hand in hand... most days.

I put myself into a box,
I pulled myself out again.

I have enjoyed it all,
As time turns everything golden.

Am I doing you justice, o 18th year?

I was told that 19 is an incredible age to be.

Now I am on its precipice.

I think I will jump with both feet first.

I would like to preserve you in a glass jar.
I would like to preserve you in a glass
I would like to preserve you in a
I would like to preserve you in
I would like to preserve you in the sunlight.
I would like to preserve you
I would like to preserve
I would like to
I would like to end this finally.
I would like
I would
I would have done anything.

I tried to preserve you in a glass jar against my better judgement.
So here I am, sitting across the table from the phantom form of you.
Would you like some tea? No, I shouldn't entertain your presence.
I would like some tea, but you'd never invite me over, would you?
Oh how I wished it so, how I tried to manifest you into reality.

I always knew you were doomed to remain a fairy tale.

Against my better judgement I tried to preserve you in a glass jar.
So here I am, sitting across the table from the phantom form of you.
Would you like to leave? No, I will still trap you here.
I would like to leave, but you'd like that too much.
Oh how I wished I could, how I tried to leave you behind.

I always knew you were doomed to remain a fairy tale.

The glass is cracking, you are escaping, finally escaping.

I would like you to stay, I would like to leave, I would like to preserve you in a glass jar.

I miss what I never thought I'd miss:
cicadas chirping
phantom insects
now crawl from the air vents
when the sun rises
dust is but dust.

I recall what I never thought I'd recall:
the city
walking up and down its streets
now running in my mind
when the alarm sounds
all is illusory.

I feel what I never thought I'd feel:
memories so real
leave me be, leave me be
I miss my home
where is this place
is it right?

I miss what I never thought I'd miss:
thoughts are swirling
I cannot understand
why here, why now, why this?
I have found my happiness
I have found it.

I wish I could knit you a blanket
Of all the words you deserve to hear
The words that should never enter your ears would roll off like rain on a rooftop.

Unfortunately your kindness is so pervasive that you’ve left your sunroof open.

I wish I could knit you a blanket
Of all the warmth you deserve to retain
The cold of the outside world would melt away like ice in the sunshine.

Unfortunately your heart is so forgiving that you forgot to turn down the A/C.

I wish I could knit you a blanket
Of all the happiness you deserve to receive
The cruelty of others would dissipate like breath in a mirror.

Unfortunately your mind is so compassionate that you have forgotten to take care of yourself.

I wish I could do for you what you do for so many. You take away the sting of harsh words, you weather the cold so that we may not have to, you face the cruelty so the cruel can feel comforted.

Your heart is gold, and I cannot knit you a blanket.

But perhaps we can share the warmth of a quilt just a little too big, and someday you can tell the sky the words you wish you hadn’t heard and let the trees drink in the cold air and give you back happiness, and sunshine, and a world just as it should be.

Until then, I’ll be waiting, with ears for listening and hands for warming and a heart for smiling.

With a quilt just a little too big for one.

Her hands are winter.
Frosted fingers interlaced above frozen windowsills staring out into the great unknown and that big blank canvas of snow that is our future, us, we.

Her eyes are spring.
Bright blue alight with life and happiness and rebirth, a freckle on the side like a cloud in the clear blue sky, like the first blossoms on the branches of the weeping cherry trees, arms stretching into forever and ever, amen.

Her laugh is summer.
The peals of schoolbells rung for the last time, the joy of escape and endless sunshine and golden days filled with potential, rolling through hills that continue on and on, never ending like the constant whispers of “I love you most.”

Her body is autumn.
Beautiful like the palette of gold, orange, and red leaves and the sunspots shining on the cool ground and the crisp scent of a new season turning itself over into something magical, cooking and baking and cinnamon and wondering when exactly our tomorrow will begin.

She is a nature girl.
The seasons spread over her body like tattoos, the warmth of the sun is enclosed in her soul and sometimes she protects herself with the ice of winter but when you learn to peel back the snow’s frosty bite you discover you have stepped out into the crisp autumn air and once again she is here, the sun of her love warming your back and your upturned face looking into hers although it’s bright but you don’t have to squint because it isn’t harsh but comforting, oh so comforting because she is love and you are love and suddenly once again it’s summer.

I love her.

Sometimes, I sit with my love for her. We chat awhile. I ask why it has come, why it is so powerful, why it never leaves. It tells me that it has been waiting for her for a long time.

Sometimes, this love breaks down the front door and enters without asking. On occasion it finds me with my head in my hands, weeping or worrying or wondering. Other times I am joyous and allow the waves of excitement this visitor brings to wash over me, erasing all other thoughts. When the love does this, it usually takes the additional liberty of freeing the butterflies in my chest. It is worth noting that I never ask it to do this.

Sometimes, the love is silent. Perhaps it is asleep upstairs, or dozing softly on the couch where I am reminded of it only in its gentle snores and even breaths. There are times when its slumber is deeper than others, when I am upset or angry and want to wake it up and demand its attention but find that it has been locked in its room and somehow I have the key in my pocket.

Always, the love is present. It has made a home within me and it has changed around the decorations so much that I don’t even remember what some parts used to look like. It has hung artwork that I don’t think I’ll ever take down, even if it decides to leave. I like the renovations, though.

Oftentimes, my love opens windows that were once shut. The air smells a little sweeter. The sun shines a little brighter. Every time it comes home, I ask it to tell her to stay. I hope it has made a home within her as well. And maybe, someday, its two homes will be one.

I love her.