I do not mean you as a metaphorical you, however "you" as in an undoubtable "you".
"You" may not see the panes it break. When "you" say my name my heart does wince with sweet, sweet soliloquy. When you hark my name, I turn away from the audience of strangers, and direct my speech unwavering toward "you". Now "you", with unwavering focus, hear my words back, ringing in "your" ear. "You" are the one. "You" my new-soul does love to hear speak. In silence "you" are a beautiful picture: with "your" hair long and brown, "your" eyes glowing green, "your" lips like pillows for my lips to dream. And when my dreams do meet their reality, "you" will fill my soul with sweet, sweet music.
Syllables leep and frolic off "your" tongue as children do play, in adolescent beauty and wonderment, in the fields of sping-time. They seem to adhere to "your" mind in both articulation and in reckless abandonment; they flow from "your" mouth like sweet, sweet sound in waves unbroken by thought (though I know "you" think before "you" speak).
Other me's may not hear the sounds that I do when "you" laugh, and giggle, and emote your beliefs. They may not believe me when I say I hear, no feel, "you", but if they would open their hearts, no minds, to true beauty I believe that they would, too, feel. Now I mean feel as in the most unbridled sense the senses can bare.
"Your" voice pangs on the strings of my heart's neck, the curvature of my being. It, "your" voice, still plays fluently in the drums of my ears; like a beautiful symphony "your" ways of speech. "Your" patterns they flow like notes on a staph. I will never know another human who can, through speech, evoke such emotion from I as "you".
I would give everything I owned to hear "your" voice play for hours, days, months, years; until "your" voice grew outdated and changed with the seasons. However, "your" voice will never grow outdated or change to me. It, "your" voice, will remain as beautiful as it was in its prime in my ears. Just to hear "your" chords play my name once more I would give it all. My heart longs to feel "you" again.

On a walk in the middle of spring.
All the bees on cali orange blossoms. The birds sing  
The difgerent smell of food as i go downtown
Live music somwhere in the distance echoing all around. Through the old neighborhoods i always  roam.
I feel at home.
Passing houses. Cars pass.  Incenese nag champa. ciggs. **** and fresh cut grass.
Seeing familiar people out and about.
Fresh air. Free. No lock down. No care. Even the dogs runnin up on me barkin is all good. Warm night Cool breeze through my neighborhood

I Love the beginning of spring
Dormant soils resurrected
From winters nourishing
A light breeze blowing
Through infant leaves
A smell so fresh
You are intoxicated
By its offering

I love the beginning of spring
Mother Nature’s power on full display
Being awaken by the melody of birds
At the break of day
The smiles on faces
As they pick up their paces
Energized by the suns ray

I’m ready for spring to come my way

We start.
Talking
And sort of...
Running.

At the first climb
We stop, breathing
Heavily - both dead, but for a comma -
And look at concrete under our feet
and windmills turning distant on the hill.

You OK?
Yes.

Start again.
on the Way now
Hawthorn and mud beside us and new green in the fields.
Easier victories of pace and breath alongside talk.
Of Warburtons and nuts and bolts.
Getting into it now
Feeling good - seeing green, paces flow
And rocky styles and sloping fields made possible.

'To that edge?'
'OK'
- Our version of sprinting -
Across the hard ridged grass
To an upward sloping wall corner,
And now the first real pain in chest and legs.  Briefly desperate.  
But another topic turns words to distance
Along a gully and narrow treed ridge
To another climb.
Our brief paces stab the ground.
Paces
To
Keep
Going

No words now.
Nothing but
Splitting lungs.
We push unforgiving gravity
Up a turning track
Going up
Still going up and around

The agony of contrasts -
Pale glorious clouds lift late sky colours of rose and blue
- While we are slow and heavy torments of road, and stones, and bones.

Can see the lookout now at Royd
We can do it
We can.
Can I...?

*******

Christ.

Doubled up gasping clutching the wall
Try to read the tourist sign's shaking print -
- may it stop the pounding -
But hearing also that eerie sweeping close now, and the gears -
A dizzying look up at the spinning blades

Can't believe we've got this high...

But no rest - chill of early Sping
Tells us not to linger with our light going:
Shadowing will be the woods:
Drawing up dark between the trees,
And we're not there yet.

Easy now.  
"Doing OK?"
"Doing OK."
We float along high fields and farms and light and words
How many milliseconds for hot cross bun dough?
How about a Triumph Triple?
(And you can forget electric scooters in Brighouse)

While late March branches hint at leaves
In the narrow lane we half run-walk
- Across another field - and under a quietening sky
A dark downward flight through trees to tarmac, street lights and...  

The Big Finish

- Aches gone and tiring feet forgotten
In a final dash to the pub.

Briefly arching for air over the car.

"Not bad -"
"No - Not bad at all"
Whose turn is it?
(That Third Person never buys a pint)

Lager?
Yes.
Nuts?


Definitely.


*                *      ­          *


Postscript:
          -  And however long or short, I will still have run with Neil                
                                  across those sloping fields with the light
                                          and the words and the hedges -

Wake me when spring has sprung
when the cold is gone,
and skies no longer gray.
Rouse me with the cries of birds
a warm wind blown my way
and a green light in the shade.
Dress me in the blooming buds,
Let butterflies be my lips,
And raindrops as my eyes.
Replace my heart with a shining star
And fill my head with a soft white cloud.
Drip the shine of morning in my veins
And I'll have the fresh green grass for my hair.
Take my bones for branches.
Make my tears have a honey-suckle taste.
My breath would be the pollen sifting through the air.
Take me from my sleeping ground
And lay me in the fresh cold stream.
Wake me when sping is sprung,
But until then, I'm going to sleep.

You were velvet,I was  jeans,you sping water,i was gaterade.I was Dvds,you were Macy,s and all its magic.I was happy with something gotten from Sears.But i loved you then as i do now and will always.You were concert music,i was gospel pop.You were Candlelight dinners with place mats,i  was McDonald,s with a two for one coupon.You were Runway fashion and political talk,i was cars and quarter backs.And in spite of our differences,we shared  many sundowns,fought against love thiefs and shared mutual  pain.And i loved you then, as i do now,and will always.We were blessed with only a brief span of time and i remember convincing you that our  would live even though you had  serious doubts.Now like so many other broken hearted lovers,we've gone our separate ways.And maybe,i should have listened to caution's music playing inside my head as you did.But i've always been a stubborn fool ,now i wait here for the lonely years to embrace me and will say in spite of fate's final decree.That i lovrd you then, as i do now and will always.

I'm sorry I ruined our spaceship
I didn't mean to break your hyperdrive
I didn't want it to be this way
but the results comply
with the theory of relativity
We made a ripple in the space time continuum
That upset the balance of natural algorithms
and the organisms we grew
in our micro envirourment
couldn't climatiise to the change
and became extinct
Now only monotonal groans
bounce between the airwaves
of our subconsciousness
Smolderijg in ashes
of the fire we once built
Turned into the ground
to bring on the new flowers
of next Sping.

As we look out
upon our new landscape
Oblivion comes into view
Overshodowing the void
of the overshadowing
void that we once knew
The Panoramic vista
gives us visa upon the earth
To spend time
in the meternal moment of life
and death
A perpetual dance
on the floors of grand halls
Palaces made of gold
In spa baths designed
for the pleasures of ***
A feast fit for kings
prepared in the lands of
sacred burial grounds
Spring breaks with the tantrum
of a young child
before the bell chimes and tentras
take the place
of the modern day
no foundations
clinging from above
The dove returns to the eve
just out of reach
reluctant to share
the olive branch