Call a funeral
For the sadness
That had overcome my life.
Say goodbye
To the things
That had once given strife.

They told me I'd be happy
Now finally,
They're right.

I carry the grief of you
between my shoulder blades.
Like stones in a heavy backpack.
I feel like I've just jumped into a river.

I'm so sad I can feel it between my shoulder blades.
I ******* hate this place.

See, my hands do this thing
when I'm nervous
bored
upset.
They tend to play,
to pinch and wiggle,
to rub my clothing together.
I bounce pencils,
I click pens.
And, please,
don't even get me started on
tapping.
Now, these are all bad habits,
carried out, unnoticed, by
restless hands.
But my favorite bad habit
is running my fingers through your hair
or maybe down your arm
or holding your hands.
But they aren't bad habits,
not then.
In those few moments,
my hands are doing
Exactly
what I want them to.

We fell asleep in the sun.
The next day, your hand was still outlined on my back,
but you were gone.

There are days
when I am certain
that there is a god.
Because,
Somehow,
I found you.

Red.
Like parting lips,
Shushed kisses.
Like high school varsity jackets.

Orange.
Like the shirt you wore
The day we met.
Like my least favorite color.

Yellow.
Like the lemonade,
So sour we spit it out.
Like summers we spent together.

Green.
Like minty gum,
Newly freshened mouths.
Like the grass I lost my innocence on.

Blue.
Like the pen I used
To write your love letters.
Like all the times we've cried.

Indigo.
Like bruises, covered
By jeans high on hips.
Like the nights we stained with lust.

Violet.
Like every single thought
Led back to you.  
Like even the spectrum had thoughts of you.