Hazel. Hand in my hand, falling from great heights. My skin, my salvation. Hay-zelle. More a way of breathing than a way to pronounce ones name. Hay. Zelle.
He was H, just H on weekends. Haze in his business, teenagers calling on him to supply them with a haze of their own. He was ****** to his followers, 'whom God strengthens.'. But in my hands, he was always Hazel.
Was there someone before him? No. In fact, had there been previous exposure to one of his caste there would may have been no Hazel at all. Like muddled eyes his name refers to was he. An ocean inside of the mudslide in me. You can always count on the broken-hearted for a fistful of metaphors and similes that make nothing of themselves to you.
Souls and bodies, the ones that have chosen an orbit in the universe of me, this is what I loved like Hades to Persephone. Look at this sole pomegranate seed.

My mother coloured your hair wet sand. My Nonno questioned me on your being, what colour your eyes are, your hair; he wants to meet you. One of the most important men in my life wants to sit with you and confound you with his Italian accent. He will likely offer you wine, ask you to come see the garden, take part in tasks my Oma has assigned, tell you about all the times we've broken his hammock, look at all the agates he and her have collected, he will tell you of me as a child, what I become in his embraces and through his songs. My Oma will talk to you sweetly, she will probably ask you about religion, I will not try to shield you of this, you could laugh, it would be alright. She will ask you about me, what are your favourite parts, what are your favourite parts. She will ask about what wonder you found in me; she will offer you blueberry pancakes, fried ham, maple syrup. You wonder so often why I told my parents, why my whole family knows of your existence. It is solely because you matter to me; because the more time I spend with you the more you become a part of me. And if I am to grow into another person, it is pertinent they see and know who it is I am growing to. Just as sitting with you and your brother in your basement is something to you as is my family seeing and knowing you. I want them to know that you are an ocean, wet sand and eyes like sea. There is nothing like you. The scent of you like sun and warmth and something drunken in. I wish I could swallow stacks of your picture just to keep you close to me only for a little while longer. There is so much of you that I want only for me.

Hormones raging loving girlfriends.
Worried Mum. Your only 17. Too young for commitments. Come home.

My dear the sight is perfect bliss
To prove the point
I will anoint
It with a little kiss
                               x